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THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY.    Illustrated.    i2mo,$i.so. 

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Kfir  Bi&erattjr  13rta«,  C 
1886 


Copyright,  1873  and  1886, 
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Copyright,  1885, 
BY  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO. 

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SIXTH    EDITION. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge  : 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  0.  Houghton  &  Co. 


Ps 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

MARJORIE  DAW 7 

Miss  MEHETABEL'S  SON 53 

OUR  NEW  NEIGHBORS  AT  PONKAPOG 93 

A  MIDNIGHT  FANTASY 103 

MADEMOISELLE  OLYMPE  ZABRISKI 140 

A  STRUGGLE  FOR  LIFE 164 

PERE  ANTOINE'S  DATE-PALM 185 

QUITE  So 196 

A  RIVERMOUTH  ROMANCE 221 

THE  LITTLE  VIOLINIST 273 


MARJORIE  DAW. 


I. 


DK.  DILLON  TO  EDWARD    DELANEY,    ESQ.,  AT    THE 
PINES,    NEAR   RYE,    N.    H. 

August  8,  1872. 

MY  DEAK  SIR  :  I  am  happy  to  assure 
you  that  your  anxiety  is  without  reason. 
Flemming  will  be  confined  to  the  sofa  for 
three  or  four  weeks,  and  will  have  to  be 
careful  at  first  how  he  uses  his  leg.  A  frac 
ture  of  this  kind  is  always  a  tedious  affair. 
Fortunately  the  bone  was  very  skilfully  set 
by  the  surgeon  who  chanced  to  be  in  the  drug 
store  where  Flemming  was  brought  after  his 
fall,  and  I  apprehend  no  permanent  incon 
venience  from  the  accident.  Flemming  is 
doing  perfectly  well  physically  ;  but  I  must 
confess  that  the  irritable  and  morbid  state 
of  mind  into  which  he  has  fallen  causes  me 
a  great  deal  of  uneasiness.  He  is  the  last 
man  in  the  world  who  ought  to  break  his 


8  MARJORIE  DAW. 

leg.  You  know  how  impetuous  our  friend 
is  ordinarily,  what  a  soul  of  restlessness  and 
energy,  never  content  unless  he  is  rushing  at 
some  object,  like  a  sportive  bull  at  a  red 
shawl ;  but  amiable  withal.  He  is  no  longer 
amiable.  His  temper  has  become  something 
frightful.  Miss  Fanny  Flemming  came  up 
from  Newport,  where  the  family  are  staying 
for  the  summer,  to  nurse  him ;  but  he  packed 
her  off  the  next  morning  in  tears.  He  has 
a  complete  set  of  Balzac's  works,  twenty- 
seven  volumes,  piled  up  near  his  sofa,  to 
throw  at  Watkins  whenever  that  exemplary 
serving-man  appears  with  his  meals.  Yes 
terday  I  very  innocently  brought  Flemming 
a  small  basket  of  lemons.  You  know  it  was 
a  strip  of  lemon-peel  on  the  curbstone  that 
caused  our  friend's  mischance.  Well,  he  no 
sooner  set  his  eyes  upon  those  lemons  than 
he  fell  into  such  a  rage  as  I  cannot  ade 
quately  describe.  This  is  only  one  of  his 
moods,  and  the  least  distressing.  At  other 
times  he  sits  with  bowed  head  regarding  his 
splintered  limb,  silent,  sullen,  despairing. 
When  this  fit  is  on  him  —  and  it  sometimes 
lasts  all  day  —  nothing  can  distract  his  mel 
ancholy.  He  refuses  to  eat,  does  not  even 
read  the  newspapers ;  books,  except  as  pro- 


MARJORIE  DAW.  9 

jectiles  for  Watkins,  have   no  charms  for 
him.     His  state  is  truly  pitiable. 

Now,   if    he  were   a  poor    man,  with   a 
family  depending  on  his  daily  labor,   this 
irritability  and  despondency  would  be   nat 
ural  enough.       But   in  a  young  fellow  of 
twenty-four,  with  plenty  of  money  and  seem 
ingly  not  a  care  in  the  world,  the  thing  is 
monstrous.     If  he  continues  to  give  way  to 
his  vagaries  in  this  manner,  he  will  end  by 
bringing  on  an  inflammation  of  the  fibula. 
It  was  the  fibula  he  broke.      I  am  at   my 
wits'  end  to  know  what  to  prescribe  for  him. 
I  have  anaesthetics  and  lotions,  to  make  peo 
ple  sleep  and  to  soothe  pain ;  but  I  've  no 
medicine  that  will  make  a  man  have  a  little 
common-sense.      That  is   beyond   my  skill, 
but  maybe   it  is  not  beyond  yours.      You 
are  Flemming's  intimate  friend,   his  fidus 
Achates.     Write  to  him,  write  to  him  fre 
quently,   distract  his  mind,  cheer  him   up, 
and  prevent  him  from  becoming  a  confirmed 
case  of  melancholia.     Perhaps  he  has  some 
important  plans  disarranged  by  his  present 
confinement.     If  he  has  you  will  know,  and 
will  know  how  to  advise  him  judiciously.     I 
trust  your  father  finds  the  change  beneficial  ? 
I  am,  my  dear  sir,  with  great  respect,  etc. 


10  MARJORIE  DAW. 


II. 


EDWARD  DELANEY  TO   JOHN   FLEMMING,   WEST 
38TH   STREET,   NEW   YORK. 

August  9,  1872. 

MY  DEAR  JACK  :  I  had  a  line  from  Dil 
lon  this  morning,  and  was  rejoiced  to  learn 
that  your  hurt  is  not  so  bad  as  reported. 
Like  a  certain  personage,  you  are  not  so 
black  and  blue  as  you  are  painted.  Dillon 
will  put  you  on  your  pins  again  in  two  or 
three  weeks,  if  you  will  only  have  patience 
and  follow  his  counsels.  Did  you  get  my 
note  of  last  Wednesday  ?  I  was  greatly 
troubled  when  I  heard  of  the  accident. 

I  can  imagine  how  tranquil  and  saintly 
you  are  with  your  leg  in  a  trough !  It  is 
deuced  awkward,  to  be  sure,  just  as  we  had 
promised  ourselves  a  glorious  month  to 
gether  at  the  sea-side ;  but  we  must  make 
the  best  of  it.  It  is  unfortunate,  too,  that 
my  father's  health  renders  it  impossible  for 
me  to  leave  him.  I  think  he  has  much  im 
proved  ;  the  sea  air  is  his  native  element ; 


MARJORIE  DAW.  11 

but  he  still  needs  my  arm  to  lean  upon  in 
his  walks,  and  requires  some  one  more  care 
ful  than  a  servant  to  look  after  him.  I 
cannot  come  to  you,  dear  Jack,  but  I  have 
hours  of  unemployed  time  on  hand,  and  I 
will  write  you  a  whole  post-office  full  of  let 
ters,  if  that  will  divert  you.  Heaven  knows, 
I  have  n't  anything  to  write  about.  It  is  n't 
as  if  we  were  living  at  one  of  the  beach 
houses ;  then  I  could  do  you  some  charac 
ter  studies,  and  fill  your  imagination  with 
groups  of  sea-goddesses,  with  their  (or 
somebody  else's)  raven  and  blonde  manes 
hanging  down  their  shoulders.  You  should 
have  Aphrodite  in  morning  wrapper,  in 
evening  costume,  and  in  her  prettiest  bath 
ing  suit.  But  we  are  far  from  all  that  here. 
We  have  rooms  in  a  farm-house,  on  a  cross 
road,  two  miles  from  the  hotels,  and  lead 
the  quietest  of  lives. 

I  wish  I  were  a  novelist.  This  old  house, 
with  its  sanded  floors  and  high  wainscots, 
and  its  narrow  windows  looking  out  upon  a 
cluster  of  pines  that  turn  themselves  into 
aeolian  harps  every  time  the  wind  blows, 
would  be  the  place  in  which  to  write  a  sum 
mer  romance.  It  should  be  a  story  with 
the  odors  of  the  forest  and  the  breath  of 


12  MARJOR1E  DAW. 

the  sea  in  it.  It  should  be  a  novel  like  one 
of  that  Russian  fellow's  — what  's  his  name  ? 
—  Tourgudnieff ,  Turguenef ,  Turgenif ,  Toor- 
guniff,  Turgenjew  —  nobody  knows  how  to 
spell  him.  Yet  I  wonder  if  even  a  Liza 
or  an  Alexandra  Paulovna  could  stir  the 
heart  of  a  man  who  has  constant  twinges  in 
his  leg.  I  wonder  if  one  of  our  own  Yan 
kee  girls  of  the  best  type,  haughty  and 
spirituelle,  would  be  of  any  comfort  to  you 
in  your  present  deplorable  condition.  If 
I  thought  so,  I  would  hasten  down  to  the 
Surf  House  and  catch  one  for  you ;  or,  bet 
ter  still,  I  would  find  you  one  over  the  way. 
Picture  to  yourself  a  large  white  house  just 
across  the  road,  nearly  opposite  our  cottage. 
It  is  not  a  house,  but  a  mansion,  built,  per 
haps,  in  the  colonial  period,  with  rambling 
extensions,  and  gambrel  roof,  and  a  wide 
piazza  on  three  sides  —  a  self-possessed, 
-high-bred  piece  of  architecture,  with  its 
nose  in  the  air.  It  stands  back  from  the 
road,  and  has  an  obsequious  retinue  of 
fringed  elms  and  oaks  and  weeping  willows. 
Sometimes  in  the  morning,  and  oftener  in 
the  afternoon,  when  the  sun  has  withdrawn 
from  that  part  of  the  mansion,  a  young 
woman  appears  on  the  piazza  with  some 


MARJORIE  DAW.  13 

mysterious  Penelope  web  of  embroidery  in 
her  hand,  or  a  book.  There  is  a  hammock 
over  there  —  of  pineapple  fibre,  it  looks 
from  here.  A  hammock  is  very  becoming 
when  one  is  eighteen,  and  has  golden  hair, 
and  dark  eyes,  and  an  emerald-colored  illu 
sion  dress  looped  up  after  the  fashion  of  a 
Dresden  china  shepherdess,  and  is  chaussee 
like  a  belle  of  the  time  of  Louis  Quatorze. 
All  this  splendor  goes  into  that  hammock, 
and  sways  there  like  a  pond-lily  in  the 
golden  afternoon.  The  window  of  my  bed 
room  looks  down  on  that  piazza  —  and  so 
do  I. 

But  enough  of  this  nonsense,  which  ill 
becomes  a  sedate  young  attorney  taking  his 
vacation  with  an  invalid  father.  Drop  me 
a  line,  dear  Jack,  and  tell  me  how  you  really 
are.  State  your  case.  Write  me  a  long, 
quiet  letter.  If  you  are  violent  or  abusive, 
I  '11  take  the  law  to  you. 


14  MARJORIE  DAW. 


III. 

JOHN    FLEMMING   TO   EDWARD   DELANEY. 

August  11,  1872. 

YOUR  letter,  dear  Ned,  was  a  godsend. 
Fancy  what  a  fix  I  am  in  —  I,  who  never 
had  a  day's  sickness  since  I  was  born.  My 
left  leg  weighs  three  tons.  It  '  i  embalmed 
in  spices  and  smothered  in  layers  of  fine 
linen,  like  a  mummy.  I  can't  move.  I 
have  n't  moved  for  five  thousand  years.  I  'm 
of  the  time  of  Pharaoh. 

I  lie  from  morning  till  night  on  a  lounge, 
staring  into  the  hot  street.  Everybody  is 
out  of  town  enjoying  himself.  The  brown- 
stone-front  houses  across  the  street  resemble 
a  row  of  particularly  ugly  coffins  set  up  on 
end.  A  green  mould  is  settling  on  the  names 
of  the  deceased,  carved  on  the  silver  door- 
plates.  Sardonic  spiders  have  sewed  up  the 
key-holes.  All  is  silence  and  dust  and  deso 
lation.  —  I  interrupt  this  a  moment,  to  take 
a  shy  at  Watkins  with  the  second  volume  of 
Ce"sar  Birotteau.  Missed  him !  I  think  I 


MARJORIE  DAW.  15 

could  bring  him  down  with  a  copy  of  Sainte- 
Beuve  or  the  Dictionnaire  Universel,  if  I 
had  it.  These  small  Balzac  books  somehow 
do  not  quite  fit  my  hand  ;  but  I  shall  fetch 
him  yet.  I  've  an  idea  that  Watkins  is  tap 
ping  the  old  gentleman's  Chateau  Yquem. 
Duplicate  key  of  the  wine-cellar.  Hibernian 
swarries  in  the  front  basement.  Young 
Cheops  up  stairs,  snug  in  his  cerements. 
Watkins  glides  into  my  chamber,  with  that 
colorless,  hypocritical  face  of  his  drawn  out 
long  like  an  accordion ;  but  I  know  he  grins 
all  the  way  down  stairs,  and  is  glad  I  have 
broken  my  leg.  Was  not  my  evil  star  in 
the  very  zenith  when  I  ran  up  to  town  to  at 
tend  that  dinner  at  Delmonico's  ?  I  did  n't 
come  up  altogether  for  that.  It  was  partly 
to  buy  Frank  Livingstone's  roan  mare  Mar- 
got.  And  now  I  shall  not  be  able  to  sit  in 
the  saddle  these  two  months.  I  '11  send  the 
mare  down  to  you  at  The  Pines  —  is  that 
the  name  of  the  place  ? 

Old  Dillon  fancies  that  I  have  something 
on  my  mind.  He  drives  me  wild  with  lem 
ons.  Lemons  for  a  mind  diseased!  Non 
sense.  I  am  only  as  restless  as  the  devil 
under  this  confinement  —  a  thing  I  'm  not 
used  to.  Take  a  man  who  has  never  had 


16  MAEJORIE  DAW. 

so  much  as  a  headache  or  a  toothache  in 
his  life,  strap  one  of  his  legs  in  a  section  of 
water-spout,  keep  him  in  a  room  in  the  city 
for  weeks,  with  the  hot  weather  turned  on, 
and  then  expect  him  to  smile  and  purr  and 
be  happy  !  It  is  preposterous.  I  can't  be 
cheerful  or  calm. 

Your  letter  is  the  first  consoling  thing  I 
have  had  since  my  disaster,  ten  days  ago. 
It  really  cheered  me  up  for  half  an  hour. 
Send  me  a  screed,  Ned,  as  often  as  you  can, 
if  you  love  me.  Anything  will  do.  Write 
me  more  about  that  little  girl  in  the  ham 
mock.  That  was  very  pretty,  all  that  about 
the  Dresden  china  shepherdess  and  the  pond- 
lily  ;  the  imagery  a  little  mixed,  perhaps, 
but  very  pretty.  I  did  n't  suppose  you  had 
so  much  sentimental  furniture  in  your  upper 
story.  It  shows  how  one  may  be  familiar 
for  years  with  the  reception-room  of  his 
neighbor,  and  never  suspect  what  is  directly 
under  his  mansard.  I  supposed  your  loft 
stuffed  with  dry  legal  parchments,  mortgages, 
and  affidavits ;  you  take  down  a  package  of 
manuscript,  and  lo !  there  are  lyrics  and 
sonnets  and  canzonettas.  You  really  have  a 
graphic  descriptive  touch,  Edward  Delaney, 
and  I  suspect  you  of  anonymous  love-tales  in 
the  magazines. 


MARJORIE  DAW.  17 

I  shall  be  a  bear  until  I  hear  from  you 
again.  Tell  me  all  about  your  pretty  incon- 
nue  across  the  road.  What  is  her  name? 
Who  is  she  ?  Who  's  her  father  ?  Where 's 
her  mother  ?  Who  's  her  lover  ?  You  can 
not  imagine  how  this  will  occupy  me.  The 
more  trifling,  the  better.  My  imprisonment 
has  weakened  me  intellectually  to  such  a 
degree  that  I  find  your  epistolary  gifts  quite 
considerable.  I  am  passing  into  my  second 
childhood.  In  a  week  or  two  I  shall  take 
to  India-rubber  rings  and  prongs  of  coral. 
A  silver  cup,  with  an  appropriate  inscrip 
tion,  would  be  a  delicate  attention  on  your 
part.  In  the  mean  time,  write  ! 


18  MARJORIE  DAW. 


IV. 

EDWARD   DELAKEY   TO   JOHN  FLEMMING. 

August  12,  1872. 

THE  sick  pasha  shall  be  amused.  Bis- 
millah!  he  wills  it  so.  If  the  story-teller 
becomes  prolix  and  tedious  —  the  bow-string 
and  the  sack,  and  two  Nubians  to  drop  him 
into  the  Piscataqua !  But  truly,  Jack,  I  have 
a  hard  task.  There  is  literally  nothing  here 
—  except  the  little  girl  over  the  way.  She 
is  swinging  in  the  hammock  at  this  moment. 
It  is  to  me  compensation  for  many  of  the 
ills  of  life  to  see  her  now  and  then  put  out 
a  small  kid  boot,  which  fits  like  a  glove,  and 
set  herself  going.  Who  is  she,  and  what  is 
her  name  ?  Her  name  is  Daw.  Only  daugh 
ter  of  Mr.  Richard  W.  Daw,  ex-colonel  and 
banker.  Mother  dead.  One  brother  at 
Harvard,  elder  brother  killed  at  the  battle 
of  Fair  Oaks,  ten  years  ago.  Old,  rich 
family,  the  Daws.  This  is  the  homestead, 
where  father  and  daughter  pass  eight  months 
of  the  twelve ;  the  rest  of  the  year  in  Balti- 


MARJORIE  DAW.  19 

more  and  Washington.  The  New  England 
winter  too  many  for  the  old  gentleman. 
The  daughter  is  called  Marjorie  —  Marjorie 
Daw.  Sounds  odd  at  first,  does  n't  it  ?  But 
after  you  say  it  over  to  yourself  half  a  dozen 
times,  you  like  it.  There  's  a  pleasing 
quaintness  to  it,  something  prim  and  violet- 
like.  Must  be  a  nice  sort  of  girl  to  be 
called  Marjorie  Daw. 

I  had  mine  host  of  The  Pines  in  the  wit 
ness-box  last  night,  and  drew  the  foregoing 
testimony  from  him.  He  has  charge  of  Mr. 
Daw's  vegetable-garden,  and  has  known  the 
family  these  thirty  years.  Of  course  I  shall 
make  the  acquaintance  of  my  neighbors  be 
fore  many  days.  It  will  be  next  to  impos 
sible  for  me  not  to  meet  Mr.  Daw  or  Miss 
Daw  in  some  of  my  walks.  The  young  lady 
has  a  favorite  path  to  the  sea-beach.  I  shall 
intercept  her  some  morning,  and  touch  my 
hat  to  her.  Then  the  princess  will  bend  her 
fair  head  to  me  with  courteous  surprise  not 
unmixed  with  haughtiness.  Will  snub  me, 
in  fact.  All  this  for  thy  sake,  O  Pasha  of 
the  Snapt  Axle-tree !  .  .  .  How  oddly  things 
fall  out!  Ten  minutes  ago  I  was  called 
down  to  the  parlor  —  you  know  the  kind  of 
parlors  in  farm-houses  on  the  coast,  a  sort 


20  MARJORIE  DAW. 

of  amphibious  parlor,  with  sea-shells  on  the 
mantel-piece  and  spruce  branches  in  the 
chimney-place  —  where  I  found  my  father 
and  Mr.  Daw  doing  the  antique  polite  to 
each  other.  He  had  come  to  pay  his  re 
spects  to  his  new  neighbors.  Mr.  Daw  is  a 
tall,  slim  gentleman  of  about  fifty-five,  with 
a  florid  face  and  snow-white  mustache  and 
side-whiskers.  Looks  like  Mr.  Dombey,  or 
as  Mr.  Dombey  would  have  looked  if  he 
had  served  a  few  years  in  the  British  Army. 
Mr.  Daw  was  a  colonel  in  the  late  war,  com 
manding  the  regiment  in  which  his  son  was 
a  lieutenant.  Plucky  old  boy,  backbone  of 
New  Hampshire  granite.  Before  taking  his 
leave,  the  colonel  delivered  himself  of  an 
invitation  as  if  he  were  issuing  a  general 
order.  Miss  Daw  has  a  few  friends  coming, 
at  4  P.  M.,  to  play  croquet  on  the  lawn  (pa 
rade-ground)  and  have  tea  (cold  rations)  on 
the  piazza.  Will  we  honor  them  with  our 
company?  (or  be  sent  to  the  guard-house.) 
My  father  declines  on  the  plea  of  ill-health. 
My  father's  son  bows  with  as  much  suavity 
as  he  knows,  and  accepts. 

In  my  next  I  shall  have  something  to  tell 
you.  I  shall  have  seen  the  little  beauty  face 
to  face.  I  have  a  presentiment,  Jack,  that 


MARJORIE  DAW.  21 

this  Daw  is  a  rara  avis  I  Keep  up  your 
spirits,  my  boy,  until  I  write  you  another 
letter  —  and  send  me  along  word  how  's 
your  leg. 


22  MARJORIE  DAW. 


V. 


EDWARD   DELANEY    TO   JOHN    FLEMMUNG. 

August  13,  1872. 

THE  party,  my  dear  Jack,  was  as  dreary 
as  possible.  A  lieutenant  of  the  navy,  the 
rector  of  the  Episcopal  Church  at  Stillwater, 
and  a  society  swell  from  Nahant.  The  lieu 
tenant  looked  as  if  he  had  swallowed  a 
couple  of  his  buttons,  and  found  the  bullion 
rather  indigestible  ;  the  rector  was  a  pensive 
youth,  of  the  daffydowndilly  sort;  and  the 
swell  from  Nahant  was  a  very  weak  tidal 
wave  indeed.  The  women  were  much  bet 
ter,  as  they  always  are  ;  the  two  Miss  Kings- 
burys  of  Philadelphia,  staying  at  the  Sea- 
shell  House,  two  bright  and  engaging  girls. 
But  Marjorie  Daw ! 

The  company  broke  up  soon  after  tea,  and 
I  remained  to  smoke  a  cigar  with  the  colonel 
on  the  piazza.  It  was  like  seeing  a  pic 
ture,  to  see  Miss  Marjorie  hovering  around 
the  old  soldier,  and  doing  a  hundred  gra 
cious  little  things  for  him.  She  brought 


MAEJORIE  DAW.  23 

the  cigars  and  lighted  the  tapers  with  her 
own  delicate  fingers,  in  the  most  enchant 
ing  fashion.  As  we  sat  there,  she  came  and 
went  in  the  summer  twilight,  and  seemed, 
with  her  white  dress  and  pale  gold  hair,  like 
some  lovely  phantom  that  had  sprung  into 
existence  out  of  the  smoke-wreaths.  If  she 
had  melted  into  air,  like  the  statue  of  Gala 
tea  in  the  play,  I  should  have  been  more 
sorry  than  surprised. 

It  was  easy  to  perceive  that  the  old  colo 
nel  worshipped  her,  and  she  him.  I  think 
the  relation  between  an  elderly  father  and  a 
daughter  just  blooming  into  womanhood  the 
most  beautiful  possible.  There  is  in  it  a  sub 
tile  sentiment  that  cannot  exist  in  the  case 
of  mother  and  daughter,  or  that  of  son  and 
mother.  But  this  is  getting  into  deep  water. 

I  sat  with  the  Daws  until  half  past  ten, 
and  saw  the  moon  rise  on  the  sea.  The 
ocean,  that  had  stretched  motionless  and 
black  against  the  horizon,  was  changed  by 
magic  into  a  broken  field  of  glittering  ice, 
interspersed  with  marvellous  silvery  fjords. 
In  the  far  distance  the  Isles  of  Shoals  loomed 
up  like  a  group  of  huge  bergs  drifting  down 
on  us.  The  Polar  Regions  in  a  June  thaw  ! 
It  was  exceedingly  fine.  What  did  we  talk 


24  MARJORIE  DAW. 

about?  We  talked  about  the  weather  — 
and  you  !  The  weather  has  been  disagreea 
ble  for  several  days  past  —  and  so  have  you. 
I  glided  from  one  topic  to  the  other  very 
naturally.  I  told  my  friends  of  your  acci 
dent  ;  how  it  had  frustrated  all  our  summer 
plans,  and  what  our  plans  were.  I  played 
quite  a  spirited  solo  on  the  fibula.  Then  I 
described  you ;  or,  rather,  I  did  n't.  I  spoke 
of  your  amiability,  of  your  patience  under 
this  severe  affliction  ;  of  your  touching  grat 
itude  when  Dillon  brings  you  little  presents 
of '  fruit ;  of  your  tenderness  to  your  sister 
Fanny,  whom  you  would  not  allow  to  stay  in 
town  to  nurse  you,  and  how  you  heroically 
sent  her  back  to  Newport,  preferring  to  re 
main  alone  with  Mary,  the  cook,  and  your 
man  Watkins,  to  whom,  by  the  way,  you 
were  devotedly  attached.  If  you  had  been 
there,  Jack,  you  would  n't  have  known  your 
self.  I  should  have  excelled  as  a  criminal 
lawyer,  if  I  had  not  turned  my  attention  to 
a  different  branch  of  jurisprudence. 

Miss  Marjorie  asked  all  manner  of  lead 
ing  questions  concerning  you.  It  did  not 
occur  to  me  then,  but  it  struck  me  forcibly 
afterwards,  that  she  evinced  a  singular  inter 
est  in  the  conversation.  When  I  got  back 


MARJORIE  DAW.  25 

to  my  room,  I  recalled  how  eagerly  she 
leaned  forward,  with  her  full,  snowy  throat 
in  strong  moonlight,  listening  to  what  I  said. 
Positively,  I  think  I  made  her  like  you ! 

Miss  Daw  is  a  girl  whom  you  would  like 
immensely,  I  can  tell  you  that.  A  beauty 
without  affectation,  a  high  and  tender  na 
ture  —  if  one  can  read  the  soul  in  the  face. 
And  the  old  colonel  is  a  noble  character, 
too. 

I  am  glad  that  the  Daws  are  such  pleasant 
people.  The  Pines  is  an  isolated  spot,  and 
my  resources  are  few.  I  fear  I  should  have 
found  life  here  somewhat  monotonous  before 
long,  with  no  other  society  than  that  of  my 
excellent  sire.  It  is  true,  I  might  have 
made  a  target  of  the  defenceless  invalid; 
but  I  have  n't  a  taste  for  artillery,  moi. 


26  MARJORIE  DAW. 


VI. 

JOHN  FLEMMING  TO   EDWARD   DELANEY. 

August  17, 1872. 

FOR  a  man  who  has  n't  a  taste  for  artil 
lery,  it  occurs  to  me,  my  friend,  you  are 
keeping  up  a  pretty  lively  fire  on  my  inner 
works.  But  go  on.  Cynicism  is  a  small 
brass  field-piece  that  eventually  bursts  and 
kills  the  artilleryman. 

You  may  abuse  me  as  much  as  you  like, 
and  I  '11  not  complain ;  for  I  don't  know 
what  I  should  do  without  your  letters.  They 
are  curing  me.  I  have  n't  hurled  anything 
at  Watkins  since  last  Sunday,  partly  be 
cause  I  have  grown  more  amiable  under 
your  teaching,  and  partly  because  Watkins 
captured  my  ammunition  one  night,  and 
carried  it  off  to  the  library.  He  is  rapidly 
losing  the  habit  he  had  acquired  of  dodg 
ing  whenever  I  rub  my  ear,  or  make  any 
slight  motion  with  my  right  arm.  He  is 
still  suggestive  of  the  wine-cellar,  however. 
You  may  break,  you  may  shatter  Watkins, 


MARJOR1E  DAW.  27 

if  you  will,  but  the  scent  of  the  Roederer 
will  hang  round  him  still. 

Ned,  that  Miss  Daw  must  be  a  charming 
person.  I  should  certainly  like  her.  I  like 
her  already.  When  you  spoke  in  your  first 
letter  of  seeing  a  young  girl  swinging  in 
a  hammock  under  your  chamber  window, 
I  was  somehow  strangely  drawn  to  her.  I 
cannot  account  for  it  in  the  least.  What 
you  have  subsequently  written  of  Miss  Daw 
has  strengthened  the  impression.  You  seem 
to  be  describing  a  woman  I  have  known  in 
some  previous  state  of  existence,  or  dreamed 
of  in  this.  Upon  my  word,  if  you  were  to 
send  me  her  photograph,  I  believe  I  should 
recognize  her  at  a  glance.  Her  manner, 
that  listening  attitude,  her  traits  of  charac 
ter,  as  you  indicate  them,  the  light  hair  and 
the  dark  eyes  —  they  are  all  familiar  things 
to  me.  Asked  a  lot  of  questions,  did  she  ? 
Curious  about  me  ?  That  is  strange. 

You  would  laugh  in  your  sleeve,  you 
wretched  old  cynic,  if  you  knew  how  I  lie 
awake  nights,  with  my  gas  turned  down  to 
a  star,  thinking  of  The  Pines  and  the  house 
across  the  road.  How  cool  it  must  be  down 
there !  I  long  for  the  salt  smell  in  the  air. 
I  picture  the  colonel  smoking  his  cheroot 


28  MARJORIE  DAW. 

on  the  piazza.  I  send  you  and  Miss  Daw 
off  on  afternoon  rambles  along  the  beach. 
Sometimes  I  let  you  stroll  with  her  under 
the  elms  in  the  moonlight,  for  you  are  great 
friends  by  this  time,  I  take  it,  and  see  each 
other  every  day.  I  know  your  ways  and 
your  manners  !  Then  I  fall  into  a  truculent 
mood,  and  would  like  to  destroy  somebody. 
Have  you  noticed  anything  in  the  shape  of 
a  lover  hanging  around  the  colonial  Lares 
and  Penates  ?  Does  that  lieutenant  of  the 
horse-marines  or  that  young  Stillwater  par 
son  visit  the  house  much  ?  Not  that  I  am 
pining  for  news  of  them,  but  any  gossip  of 
the  kind  would  be  in  order.  I  wonder,  Ned, 
you  don't  fall  in  love  with  Miss  Daw.  I  am 
ripe  to  do  it  myself.  Speaking  of  photo 
graphs,  could  n't  you  manage  to  slip  one  of 
her  cartes-de-visite  from  her  album  —  she 
must  have  an  album,  you  know  —  and  send 
it  to  me  ?  I  will  return  it  before  it  could 
be  missed.  That's  a  good  fellow  !  Did  the 
mare  arrive  safe  and  sound  ?  It  will  be 
a  capital  animal  this  autumn  for  Central 
Park. 

Oh  —  my  leg  ?    I  forgot   about  my  leg. 
It 's  better. 


MARJORIE  DAW.  29 


VII. 

EDWARD   DELANEY  TO  JOHN   FLEMMING. 

August  20,  1872. 

You  are  correct  in  your  surmises.  I  am 
on  the  most  friendly  terms  with  our  neigh 
bors.  The  colonel  and  my  father  smoke 
their  afternoon  cigar  together  in  our  sitting- 
room  or  on  the  piazza  opposite,  and  I  pass 
an  hour  or  two  of  the  day  or  the  evening 
with  the  daughter.  I  am  more  and  more 
struck  by  the  beauty,  modesty,  and  intel 
ligence  of  Miss  Daw. 

You  ask  me  why  I  do  not  fall  in  love 
with  her.  I  will  be  frank,  Jack :  I  have 
thought  of  that.  She  is  young,  rich,  ac 
complished,  uniting  in  herself  more  attrac 
tions,  mental  and  personal,  than  I  can  recall 
in  any  girl  of  my  acquaintance  ;  but  she 
lacks  the  something  that  would  be  necessary 
to  inspire  in  me  that  kind  of  interest.  Pos 
sessing  this  unknown  quantity,  a  woman 
neither  beautiful  nor  wealthy  nor  very  young 
could  bring  me  to  her  feet.  But  not  Miss 


30  MARJORIE  DAW. 

Daw.  If  we  were  shipwrecked  together  on 
an  uninhabited  island  —  let  me  suggest  a 
tropical  island,  for  it  costs  no  more  to  be 
picturesque  —  I  would  build  her  a  bamboo 
hut,  I  would  fetch  her  bread-fruit  and  cocoa- 
nuts,  I  would  fry  yams  for  her,  I  would  lure 
the  ingenuous  turtle  and  make  her  nourish 
ing  soups,  but  I  would  n't  make  love  to  her 
—  not  under  eighteen  months.  I  would  like 
to  have  her  for  a  sister,  that  I  might  shield 
her  and  counsel  her,  and  spend  half  my 
income  on  old  thread-lace  and  camel's-hair 
shawls.  (We  are  off  the  island  now.)  If 
such  were  not  my  feeling,  there  would  still 
be  an  obstacle  to  my  loving  Miss  Daw.  A 
greater  misfortune  could  scarcely  befall  me 
than  to  love  her.  Flemming,  I  am  about  to 
make  a  revelation  that  will  astonish  you.  I 
may  be  all  wrong  in  my  premises  and  con 
sequently  in  my  conclusions  ;  but  you  shall 
judge. 

That  night  when  I  returned  to  my  room 
after  the  croquet  party  at  the  Daws',  and 
was  thinking  over  the  trivial  events  of  the 
evening,  I  was  suddenly  impressed  by  the 
air  of  eager  attention  with  which  Miss  Daw 
had  followed  my  account  of  your  accident. 
I  think  I  mentioned  this  to  you.  Well,  the 


MARJORIE  DAW.  31 

next  morning,  as  I  went  to  mail  my  letter, 
I  overtook  Miss  Daw  on  the  road  to  Rye, 
where  the  post-office  is,  and  accompanied 
her  thither  and  back,  an  hour's  walk.  The 
conversation  again  turned  on  you,  and  again 
I  remarked  that  inexplicable  look  of  interest 
which  had  lighted  up  her  face  the  previous 
evening.  Since  then,  I  have  seen  Miss  Daw 
perhaps  ten  times,  perhaps  oftener,  and  on 
each  occasion  I  found  that  when  I  was  not 
speaking  of  you,  or  your  sister,  or  some  per 
son  or  place  associated  with  you,  I  was  not 
holding  her  attention.  She  would  be  absent- 
minded,  her  eyes  would  wander  away  from 
me  to  the  sea,  or  to  some  distant  object  in 
the  landscape ;  her  fingers  would  play  with 
the  leaves  of  a  book  in  a  way  that  convinced 
me  she  was  not  listening.  At  these  mo 
ments  if  I  abruptly  changed  the  theme  —  I 
did  it  several  times  as  an  experiment  —  and 
dropped  some  remark  about  my  friend  Flem- 
ming,  then  the  sombre  blue  eyes  would  come 
back  to  me  instantly. 

Now,  is  not  this  the  oddest  thing  in  the 
world?  No,  not  the  oddest.  The  effect 
which  you  tell  me  was  produced  on  you  by 
my  casual  mention  of  an  unknown  girl 
swinging  in  a  hammock  is  certainly  as 


32  MARJORIE  DAW. 

strange.  You  can  conjecture  how  that  pas 
sage  in  your  letter  of  Friday  startled  me. 
Is  it  possible,  then,  that  two  people  who 
have  never  met,  and  who  are  hundreds  of 
miles  apart,  can  exert  a  magnetic  influence 
on  each  other  ?  I  have  read  of  such  psycho 
logical  phenomena,  but  never  credited  them. 
I  leave  the  solution  of  the  problem  to  you. 
As  for  myself,  all  other  things  being  favor 
able,  it  would  be  impossible  for  me  to  fall  in 
love  with  a  woman  who  listens  to  me  only 
when  I  am  talking  of  my  friend ! 

I  am  not  aware  that  any  one  is  paying 
marked  attention  to  my  fair  neighbor.  The 
lieutenant  of  the  navy  —  he  is  stationed  at 
Rivermouth  —  sometimes  drops  in  of  an 
evening,  and  sometimes  the  rector  from 
Stillwater ;  the  lieutenant  the  oftener.  He 
was  there  last  night.  I  should  not  be  sur 
prised  if  he  had  an  eye  to  the  heiress  ;  but 
he  is  not  formidable.  Mistress  Daw  carries 
a  neat  little  spear  of  irony,  and  the  honest 
lieutenant  seems  to  have  a  particular  facility 
for  impaling  himself  on  the  point  of  it.  He 
is  not  dangerous,  I  should  say ;  though  I 
have  known  a  woman  to  satirize  a  man  for 
years,  and  marry  him  after  all.  Decidedly, 
the  lowly  rector  is  not  dangerous ;  yet,  again, 


MARJORIE  DAW.  33 

who  has  not  seen  Cloth  of  Frieze  victorious 
in  the  lists  where  Cloth  of  Gold  went  down  ? 

As  to  the  photograph.  There  is  an  ex 
quisite  ivorytype  of  Marjorie,  in  passe-par 
tout,  on  the  drawing-room  mantel-piece.  It 
would  be  missed  at  once  if  taken.  I  would 
do  anything  reasonable  for  you,  Jack ;  but 
I  've  no  burning  desire  to  be  hauled  up  be 
fore  the  local  justice  of  the  peace,  on  a 
charge  of  petty  larceny. 

P.  S.  — Enclosed  is  a  spray  of  mignonette, 
which  I  advise  you  to  treat  tenderly.  Yes, 
we  talked  of  you  again  last  night,  as  usual. 
It  is  becoming  a  little  dreary  for  me. 


34  MARJORIE  DAW. 


vni. 

EDWARD  DELANEY   TO  JOHN   FLEMMING. 

August  22, 1872. 

YOUR  letter  in  reply  to  my  last  has  occu 
pied  my  thoughts  all  the  morning.  I  do  not 
know  what  to  think.  Do  you  mean  to  say 
that  you  are  seriously  half  in  love  with  a 
woman  whom  you  have  never  seen  —  with  a 
shadow,  a  chimera?  for  what  else  can  Miss 
Daw  be  to  you  ?  I  do  not  understand  it  at 
all.  I  understand  neither  you  nor  her. 
You  are  a  couple  of  ethereal  beings  moving 
in  finer  air  than  I  can  breathe  with  my  com 
monplace  lungs.  Such  delicacy  of  senti 
ment  is  something  that  I  admire  without 
comprehending.  I  am  bewildered.  I  am 
of  the  earth  earthy,  and  I  find  myself  in  the 
incongruous  position  of  having  to  do  with 
mere  souls,  with  natures  so  finely  tempered 
that  I  run  some  risk  of  shattering  them  in 
my  awkwardness.  I  am  as  Caliban  among 
the  spirits ! 

Reflecting  on  your  letter,  I  am  not  sure 


MARJORIE  DAW.  35 

that  it  is  wise  in  me  to  continue  this  cor 
respondence.  But  no,  Jack ;  I  do  wrong  to 
doubt  the  good  sense  that  forms  the  basis  of 
your  character.  You  are  deeply  interested 
in  Miss  Daw ;  you  feel  that  she  is  a  person 
whom  you  may  perhaps  greatly  admire  when 
you  know  her :  at  the  same  time  you  bear  in 
mind  that  the  chances  are  ten  to  five  that, 
when  you  do  come  to  know  her,  she  will  fall 
far  short  of  your  ideal,  and  you  will  not  care 
for  her  in  the  least.  Look  at  it  in  this  sen 
sible  light,  and  I  will  hold  back  nothing 
from  you. 

Yesterday  afternoon  my  father  and  myself 
rode  over  to  Rivermouth  with  the  Daws.  A 
heavy  rain  in  the  morning  had  cooled  the 
atmosphere  and  laid  the  dust.  To  River- 
mouth  is  a  drive  of  eight  miles,  along  a 
winding  road  lined  all  the  way  with  wild 
barberry-bushes.  I  never  saw  anything 
more  brilliant  than  these  bushes,  the  green 
of  the  foliage  and  the  faint  blush  of  the  ber 
ries  intensified  by  the  rain.  The  colonel 
drove,  with  my  father  in  front,  Miss  Daw 
and  I  on  the  back  seat.  I  resolved  that  for 
the  first  five  miles  your  name  should  not 
pass  my  lips.  I  was  amused  by  the  artful 
attempts  she  made,  at  the  start,  to  break 


36  MARJORIE  DAW. 

through  my  reticence.  Then  a  silence  fell 
upon  her ;  and  then  she  became  suddenly 
gay.  That  keenness  which  I  enjoyed  so 
much  when  it  was  exercised  on  the  lieu 
tenant  was  not  so  satisfactory  directed 
against  myself.  Miss  Daw  has  great  sweet 
ness  of  disposition,  but  she  can  be  disagree 
able.  She  is  like  the  young  lady  in  the 
rhyme,  with  the  curl  on  her  forehead, 

"  When  she  is  good, 

She  is  very,  very  good, 
And  when  she  is  bad,  she  is  horrid  !  " 

I  kept  to  my  resolution,  however;  but  on 
the  return  home  I  relented,  and  talked  of 
your  mare !  Miss  Daw  is  going  to  try  a 
side-saddle  on  Margot  some  morning.  The 
animal  is  a  trifle  too  light  for  my  weight. 
By  the  bye,  I  nearly  forgot  to  say  that  Miss 
Daw  sat  for  a  picture  yesterday  to  a  River- 
mouth  artist.  If  the  negative  turns  out 
well,  I  am  to  have  a  copy.  So  our  ends  will 
be  accomplished  without  crime.  I  wish, 
though,  I  could  send  you  the  ivorytype  in 
the  drawing-room ;  it  is  cleverly  colored,  and 
would  give  you  an  idea  of  her  hair  and 
eyes,  which  of  course  the  other  will  not. 

No,  Jack,  the  spray  of   mignonette  did 
not  come  from  me.     A  man  of  twenty-eight 


MARJORIE  DAW.  37 

does  n't  enclose  flowers  in  his  letters  —  to 
another  man.  But  don't  attach  too  much, 
significance  to  the  circumstance.  She  gives 
sprays  of  mignonette  to  the  rector,  sprays 
to  the  lieutenant.  She  has  even  given  a 
rose  from  her  bosom  to  your  slave.  It  is 
her  jocund  nature  to  scatter  flowers,  like 
Spring. 

If  my  letters  sometimes  read  disjointedly, 
you  must  understand  that  I  never  finish  one 
at  a  sitting,  but  write  at  intervals,  when  the 
mood  is  on  me. 

The  mood  is  not  on  me  now. 


38  MARJORIE  DAW. 


IX. 

EDWARD   DELANEY   TO  JOHN   FLEMMING. 

August  23,  1872. 

I  HAVE  just  returned  from  the  strangest 
interview  with  Marjorie.  She  has  all  but 
confessed  to  me  her  interest  in  you.  But 
with  what  modesty  and  dignity !  Her  words 
elude  my  pen  as  I  attempt  to  put  them  on 
paper ;  and,  indeed,  it  was  not  so  much  what 
she  said  as  her  manner ;  and  that  I  cannot 
reproduce.  Perhaps  it  was  of  a  piece  with 
the  strangeness  of  this  whole  business,  that 
she  should  tacitly  acknowledge  to  a  third 
party  the  love  she  feels  for  a  man  she  has 
never  beheld !  But  I  have  lost,  through 
your  aid,  the  faculty  of  being  surprised.  I 
accept  things  as  people  do  in  dreams.  Now 
that  I  am  again  in  my  room,  it  all  appears 
like  an  illusion  —  the  black  masses  of  Rem- 
brandtish  shadow  under  the  trees,  the  fire 
flies  whirling  in  Pyrrhic  dances,  among  the 
shrubbery,  the  sea  over  there,  Marjorie  sit 
ting  on  the  hammock ! 


MARJOR1E  DAW.        •  39 

It  is  past  midnight,  and  I  am  too  sleepy 
to  write  more. 

Thursday  Morning. 

My  father  has  suddenly  taken  it  into  his 
head  to  spend  a  few  days  at  the  Shoals.  In 
the  meanwhile  you  will  not  hear  from  me. 
I  see  Marjorie  walking  in  the  garden  with 
the  colonel.  I  wish  I  could  speak  to  her 
alone,  but  shall  probably  not  have  an  oppor 
tunity  before  we  leave. 


40  MARJORIE  DAW. 


X. 

EDWARD  DELANEY   TO  JOHN  FLEMMING. 

August  28,  1872. 

You  were  passing  into  your  second  child 
hood,  were  you?  Your  intellect  was  so  re 
duced  that  my  epistolary  gifts  seemed  quite 
considerable  to  you,  did  they?  I  rise  su 
perior  to  the  sarcasm  in  your  favor  of  the 
llth  instant,  when  I  notice  that  five  days' 
silence  on  my  part  is  sufficient  to  throw  you 
into  the  depths  of  despondency. 

We  returned  only  this  morning  from  Ap- 
pledore,  that  enchanted  island  —  at  four 
dollars  per  day.  I  find  on  my  desk  three 
letters  from  you !  Evidently  there  is  no 
lingering  doubt  in  your  mind  as  to  the 
pleasure  I  derive  from  your  correspondence. 
These  letters  are  undated,  but  in  what  I 
take  to  be  the  latest  are  two  passages  that 
require  my  consideration.  You  will  pardon 
my  candor,  dear  Flemming,  but  the  convic 
tion  forces  itself  upon  me  that  as  your  leg 
grows  stronger  your  head  becomes  weaker. 


MARJORIE  DAW.  41 

You  ask  my  advice  on  a  certain  point.  I 
will  give  it.  In  my  opinion  you  could  do 
nothing  more  unwise  than  to  address  a  note 
to  Miss  Daw,  thanking  her  for  the  flower. 
It  would,  I  am  sure,  offend  her  delicacy  be 
yond  pardon.  She  knows  you  only  through 
me ;  you  are  to  her  an  abstraction,  a  figure 
in  a  dream  —  a  dream  from  which  the  faint 
est  shock  would  awaken  her.  Of  course,  if 
you  enclose  a  note  to  me  and  insist  on  its 
delivery,  I  shall  deliver  it ;  but  I  advise  you 
not  to  do  so. 

You  say  you  are  able,  with  the  aid  of  a 
cane,  to  walk  about  your  chamber,  and  that 
you  purpose  to  come  to  The  Pines  the  in 
stant  Dillon  thinks  you  strong  enough  to 
stand  the  journey.  Again  I  advise  you  not 
to.  Do  you  not  see  that,  every  hour  you  re 
main  away,  Marjorie's  glamour  deepens,  and 
your  influence  over  her  increases  ?  You  will 
ruin  everything  by  precipitancy.  Wait  un 
til  you  are  entirely  recovered ;  in  any  case, 
do  not  come  without  giving  me  warning.  I 
fear  the  effect  of  your  abrupt  advent  here 
—  under  the  circumstances. 

Miss  Daw  was  evidently  glad  to  see  us 
back  again,  and  gave  me  both  hands  in  the 
frankest  way.  She  stopped  at  the  door  a 


42  MARJORIE  DAW. 

moment  this  afternoon  in  the  carriage ;  she 
had  been  over  to  Rivermouth  for  her  pic 
tures.  Unluckily  the  photographer  had  spilt 
some  acid  on  the  plate,  and  she  was  obliged 
to  give  him  another  sitting.  I  have  an  in 
tuition  that  something  is  troubling  Marjorie. 
She  had  an  abstracted  air  not  usual  with 
her.  However,  it  may  be  only  my  fancy. 
...  I  end  this,  leaving  several  things  un 
said,  to  accompany  my  father  on  one  of 
those  long  walks  which  are  now  his  chief 
medicine  —  and  mine  ! 


MARJORIE  DAW.  43 


XI. 

EDWARD   DELANBY   TO  JOHN   FLEMMING. 

August  29, 1872. 

I  WRITE  in  great  haste  to  tell  you  what 
has  taken  place  here  since  my  letter  of 
last  night.  I  am  in  the  utmost  perplexity. 
Only  one  thing  is  plain  —  you  must  not 
dream  of  coming  to  The  Pines.  Marjorie 
has  told  her  father  everything !  I  saw  her 
for  a  few  minutes,  an  hour  ago,  in  the  gar 
den  ;  and,  as  near  as  I  could  gather  from 
her  confused  statement,  the  facts  are  these : 
Lieutenant  Bradly  —  that  's  the  naval  offi 
cer  stationed  at  Bi vermouth  —  has  been  pay 
ing  court  to  Miss  Daw  for  some  time  past, 
but  not  so  much  to  her  liking  as  to  that  of 
the  colonel,  who  it  seems  is  an  old  friend  of 
the  young  gentleman's  father.  Yesterday 
(I  knew  she  was  in  some  trouble  when  she 
drove  up  to  our  gate)  the  colonel  spoke  to 
Marjorie  of  Bradly  —  urged  his  suit,  I  in 
fer.  Marjorie  expressed  her  dislike  for  the 
lieutenant  with  characteristic  frankness,  and 


44  MARJORIE  DAW. 

finally  confessed  to  her  father  —  well,  I 
really  do  not  know  what  she  confessed.  It 
must  have  been  the  vaguest  of  confessions, 
and  must  have  sufficiently  puzzled  the  colo 
nel.  At  any  rate,  it  exasperated  him.  I 
suppose  I  am  implicated  in  the  matter,  and 
that  the  colonel  feels  bitterly  towards  me. 
I  do  not  see  why :  I  have  carried  no  mes 
sages  between  you  and  Miss  Daw ;  I  have 
behaved  with  the  greatest  discretion.  I  can 
find  no  flaw  anywhere  in  my  proceeding.  I 
do  not  see  that  anybody  has  done  anything 
—  except  the  colonel  himself. 

It  is  probable,  nevertheless,  that  the 
friendly  relations  between  the  two  houses 
will  be  broken  off.  "  A  plague  o'  both  your 
houses,"  say  you.  I  will  keep  you  informed, 
as  well  as  I  can,  of  what  occurs  over  the 
way.  We  shall  remain  here  until  the  sec 
ond  week  in  September.  Stay  where  you 
are,  or,  at  all  events,  do  not  dream  of  join 
ing  me.  .  .  .  Colonel  Daw  is  sitting  on 
the  piazza  looking  rather  wicked.  I  have 
not  seen  Marjorie  since  I  parted  with  her  in 
the  garden. 


MARJORIE  DAW.  45 


XII. 

EDWARD  DELANEY  TO   THOMAS  DILLON,   M.  D., 
MADISON  SQUARE,   NEW  YORK. 

August  30, 1872. 

MY  DEAR  DOCTOR  :  If  you  have  any  in 
fluence  over  Flemming,  I  beg  of  you  to 
exert  it  to  prevent  his  coming  to  this  place 
at  present.  There  are  circumstances,  which 
I  will  explain  to  you  before  long,  that  make 
it  of  the  first  importance  that  he  should  not 
come  into  this  neighborhood.  His  appear 
ance  here,  I  speak  advisedly,  would  be  dis 
astrous  to  him.  In  urging  him  to  remain  in 
New  York,  or  to  go  to  some  inland  resort, 
you  will  be  doing  him  and  me  a  real  service. 
Of  course  you  will  not  mention  my  name  in 
this  connection.  You  know  me  well  enough, 
my  dear  doctor,  to  be  assured  that,  in  beg 
ging  your  secret  cooperation,  I  have  rea 
sons  that  will  meet  your  entire  approval 
when  they  are  made  plain  to  you.  We  shall 
return  to  town  on  the  15th  of  next  month, 
and  my  first  duty  will  be  to  present  myself 


46  MARJORIE  DAW. 

at  your  hospitable  door  and  satisfy  your 
curiosity,  if  I  have  excited  it.  My  father, 
I  am  glad  to  state,  has  so  greatly  improved 
that  he  can  no  longer  be  regarded  as  an  in 
valid.  With  great  esteem,  I  am,  etc.,  etc. 


MARJORIE  DAW.  47 


XIII. 

EDWARD    DELANEY   TO   JOHN   FLEMMING. 

August  31, 1872. 

YOUR  letter,  announcing  your  mad  deter 
mination  to  come  here,  has  just  reached  me. 
I  beseech  you  to  reflect  a  moment.  The 
step  would  be  fatal  to  your  interests  and 
hers.  You  would  furnish  just  cause  for 
irritation  to  R.  W.  D. ;  and,  though  he 
loves  Marjorie  devotedly,  he  is  capable  of 
going  to  any  lengths  if  opposed.  You  would 
not  like,  I  am  convinced,  to  be  the  means  of 
causing  him  to  treat  her  with  severity.  That 
would  be  the  result  of  your  presence  at 
The  Pines  at  this  juncture.  I  am  annoyed 
to  be  obliged  to  point  out  these  things 
to  you.  We  are  on  very  delicate  ground, 
Jack ;  the  situation  is  critical,  and  the  slight 
est  mistake  in  a  move  would  cost  us  the 
game.  If  you  consider  it  worth  the  win 
ning,  be  patient.  Trust  a  little  to  my  saga 
city.  Wait  and  see  what  happens.  More 
over,  I  understand  from  Dillon  that  you  are 


48  MARJORIE  DAW. 

in  no  condition  to  take  so  long  a  journey. 
He  thinks  the  air  of  the  coast  would  be 
the  worst  thing  possible  for  you ;  that  you 
ought  to  go  inland,  if  anywhere.  Be  ad 
vised  by  me.  Be  advised  by  Dillon. 


MARJOR1E  DAW.  49 


XIV. 

TELEGRAMS. 

September  1, 1872. 

1.  —  To  EDWARD  DELANEY. 
Letter  received.     Dillon    be   hanged.     I 
think  I  ought  to  be  on  the  ground. 

J.  F. 

2.  —  To  JOHN  FLEMMING. 
Stay   where   you   are.     You   would   only 
complicate  matters.     Do  not  move  until  you 
hear  from  me.  E.  D. 

3.  —  To  EDWARD  DELANEY. 
My  being  at  The   Pines   could  be  kept 
secret.     I  must  see  her.  J.  F. 

4.  —  To  JOHN  FLEMMING. 
Do  not  think  of  it.     It  would  be  useless. 
R.  W.  D.  has  locked  M.  in  her  room.     You 
would  not  be  able  to  effect  an  interview. 

E.  D. 

5.  —  To  EDWARD  DELANEY. 
Locked   her   in   her  room.      Good  God. 
That  settles  the  question.     I  shall  leave  by 
the  twelve-fifteen  express.  J.  F. 


50  MARJORIE  DAW. 


XV. 

THE   AKKIVAL. 

ON  the  second  day  of  September,  1872, 
as  the  down  express,  due  at  3.40,  left  the 
station  at  Hampton,  a  young  man,  leaning 
on  the  shoulder  of  a  servant,  whom  he  ad 
dressed  as  Watkins,  stepped  from  the  plat 
form  into  a  hack,  and  requested  to  be  driven 
to  "  The  Pines."  On  arriving  at  the  gate 
of  a  modest  farm-house,  a  few  miles  from 
the  station,  the  young  man  descended  with 
difficulty  from  the  carriage,  and,  casting  a 
hasty  glance  across  the  road,  seemed  much 
impressed  by  some  peculiarity  in  the  land 
scape.  Again  leaning  on  the  shoulder  of 
the  person  Watkins,  he  walked  to  the  door 
of  the  farm-house  and  inquired  for  Mr.  Ed 
ward  Delaney.  He  was  informed  by  the 
aged  man  who  answered  his  knock,  that  Mr. 
Edward  Delaney  had  gone  to  Boston  the 
day  before,  but  that  Mr.  Jonas  Delaney  was 
within.  This  information  did  not  appear 
satisfactory  to  the  stranger,  who  inquired  if 


MARJORIE  DAW.  51 

Mr.  Edward  Delaney  had  left  any  message 
for  Mr.  John  Flemming.  There  was  a  let 
ter  for  Mr.  Flemming,  if  he  were  that  per 
son.  After  a  brief  absence  the  aged  man 
reappeared  with  a  Letter. 


52  MARJORIE  DAW. 


XVI. 

EDWARD   DELANEY  TO  JOHN   FLEMMING. 

September  1,  1872. 

I  AM  horror-stricken  at  what  I  have  done  ! 
When  I  began  this  correspondence  I  had  no 
other  purpose  than  to  relieve  the  tedium  of 
your  sick-chamber.  Dillon  told  me  to  cheer 
you  up.  I  tried  to.  I  thought  that  you  en 
tered  into  the  spirit  of  the  thing.  I  had  no 
idea,  until  within  a  few  days,  that  you  were 
taking  matters  au  grand  s£rieux. 

What  can  I  say  ?  I  am  in  sackcloth  and 
ashes.  I  am  a  pariah,  a  dog  of  an  outcast. 
I  tried  to  make  a  little  romance  to  interest 
you,  something  soothing  and  idyllic,  and,  by 
Jove  !  I  have  done  it  only  too  well !  My 
father  does  n't  know  a  word  of  this,  so  don't 
jar  the  old  gentleman  any  more  than  you  can 
help.  I  fly  from  the  wrath  to  come  —  when 
you  arrive  !  For  oh,  dear  Jack,  there  is  n't 
any  colonial  mansion  on  the  other  side  of  the 
road,  there  is  n't  any  piazza,  there  is  n't  any 
hammock  —  there  is  n't  any  Marjorie  Daw  J 


MISS   MEHETABEL'S   SON. 


THE  OLD  TAVERN  AT  BAYLEY's  FOUR-CORNERS. 

You  will  not  find  Greenton,  or  Bayley's 
Four-Corners,  as  it  is  more  usually  desig 
nated,  on  any  map  of  New  England  that  I 
know  of.  It  is  not  a  town ;  it  is  not  even  a 
village ;  it  is  merely  an  absurd  hotel.  The 
almost  indescribable  place  called  Greenton 
is  at  the  intersection  of  four  roads,  in  the 
heart  of  New  Hampshire,  twenty  miles  from 
the  nearest  settlement  of  note,  and  ten  miles 
from  any  railway  station.  A  good  location 
for  a  hotel,  you  will  say.  Precisely ;  but 
there  has  always  been  a  hotel  there,  and  for 
the  last  dozen  years  it  has  been  pretty  well 
patronized  —  by  one  boarder.  Not  to  trifle 
with  an  intelligent  public,  I  will  state  at 
once  that,  in  the  early  part  of  this  century, 
Greenton  was  a  point  at  which  the  mail- 


54  MISS  MEHETABEL'S  SON. 

coach  on  the  Great  Northern  Route  stopped 
to  change  horses  and  allow  the  passengers 
to  dine.  People  in  the  county,  wishing  to 
take  the  early  mail  Portsmouth-ward,  put 
up  overnight  at  the  old  tavern,  famous  for 
its  irreproachable  larder  and  soft  feather- 
beds.  The  tavern  at  that  time  was  kept  by 
Jonathan  Bayley,  who  rivalled  his  wallet  in 
growing  corpulent,  and  in  due  time  passed 
away.  At  his  death  the  establishment,  which 
included  a  farm,  fell  into  the  hands  of  a  son- 
in-law.  Now,  though  Bayley  left  his  son-in- 
law  a  hotel  —  which  sounds  handsome  —  he 
left  him  no  guests ;  for  at  about  the  period 
of  the  old  man's  death  the  old  stage-coach 
died  also.  Apoplexy  carried  off  one,  and 
steam  the  other.  Thus,  by  a  sudden  swerve 
in  the  tide  of  progress,  the  tavern  at  the 
Corners  found  itself  high  and  dry,  like  a 
wreck  on  a  sand-bank.  Shortly  after  this 
event,  or  maybe  contemporaneously,  there 
was  some  attempt  to  build  a  town  at  Green- 
ton  ;  but  it  apparently  failed,  if  eleven  cel 
lars  choked  up  with  debris  and  overgrown 
with  burdocks  are  any  indication  of  failure. 
The  farm,  however,  was  a  good  farm,  as 
things  go  in  New  Hampshire,  and  Tobias 
Sewell,  the  son-in-law,  could  afford  to  snap 


MISS  ME HET 'ABEL'S  SOU.  55 

his  fingers  at  the  travelling  public  if  they 
came  near  enough  —  which  they  never  did. 

The  hotel  remains  to-day  pretty  much  the 
same  as  when  Jonathan  Bayley  handed  in  his 
accounts  in  1840,  except  that  Sewell  has  from 
time  to  time  sold  the  furniture  of  some  of 
the  upper  chambers  to  bridal  couples  in  the 
neighborhood.  The  bar  is  still  open,  and 
the  parlor  door  says  PARLOUR  in  tall  black 
letters.  Now  and  then  a  passing  drover 
looks  in  at  that  lonely  bar-room,  where  a 
high-shouldered  bottle  of  Santa  Cruz  rum 
ogles  with  a  peculiarly  knowing  air  a  shriv 
elled  lemon  on  a  shelf ;  now  and  then  a 
farmer  rides  across  country  to  talk  crops  and 
stock  and  take  a  friendly  glass  with  Tobias  ; 
and  now  and  then  a  circus  caravan  with 
speckled  ponies,  or  a  menagerie  with  a  soggy 
elephant,  halts  under  the  swinging  sign,  on 
which  there  is  a  dim  mail-coach  with  four 
phantomish  horses  driven  by  a  portly  gentle 
man  whose  head  has  been  washed  off  by  the 
rain.  Other  customers  there  are  none,  ex 
cept  that  one  regular  boarder  whom  I  have 
mentioned. 

If  misery  makes  a  man  acquainted  with 
strange  bed-fellows,  it  is  equally  certain  that 
the  profession  of  surveyor  and  civil  engineer 


56  MISS  MEHETABEUS  SON. 

often  takes  one  into  undreamed-of  localities. 
I  had  never  heard  of  Greenton  until  my  du 
ties  sent  me  there,  and  kept  me  there  two 
weeks  in  the  dreariest  season  of  the  year.  I 
do  not  think  I  would,  of  my  own  volition, 
have  selected  Greenton  for  a  fortnight's  so 
journ  at  any  time ;  but  now  the  business  is 
over,  I  shall  never  regret  the  circumstances 
that  made  me  the  guest  of  Tobias  Sewell, 
and  brought  me  into  intimate  relations  with 
Miss  Mehetabel's  Son. 

It  was  a  black  October  night  in  the  year 
of  grace  1872,  that  discovered  me  standing 
in  front  of  the  old  tavern  at  the  Corners. 

Though  the  ten  miles'  ride  from  K had 

been  depressing,  especially  the  last  five  miles, 
on  account  of  the  cold  autumnal  rain  that  had 
set  in,  I  felt  a  pang  of  regret  on  hearing  the 
rickety  open  wagon  turn  round  in  the  road 
and  roll  off  in  the  darkness.  There  were  no 
lights  visible  anywhere,  and  only  for  the  big, 
shapeless  mass  of  something  in  front  of  me, 
which  the  driver  had  said  was  the  hotel,  I 
should  have  fancied  that  I  had  been  set 
down  by  the  roadside.  I  was  wet  to  the 
skin  and  in  no  amiable  humor  ;  and  not  be 
ing  able  to  find  bell-pull  or  knocker,  or  even 
a  door,  I  belabored  the  side  of  the  house 


MISS  MEHETABEUS  SON.  57 

with  my  heavy  walking-stick.  In  a  minute 
or  two  I  saw  a  light  flickering  somewhere 
aloft,  then  I  heard  the  sound  of  a  window 
opening,  followed  by  an  exclamation  of  dis 
gust  as  a  blast  of  wind  extinguished  the  can 
dle  which  had  given  me  an  instantaneous 
picture  en  silhouette  of  a  man  leaning  out  of 
a  casement. 

"  I  say,  what  do  you  want,  down  there  ?  " 
inquired  an  unprepossessing  voice. 

"  I  want  to  come  in ;  I  want  a  supper,  and 
a  bed,  and  numberless  things." 

"  This  is  n't  no  time  of  night  to  go  rous 
ing  honest  folks  out  of  their  sleep.  Who 
are  you,  anyway  ?  " 

The  question,  superficially  considered,  was 
a  very  simple  one,  and  I,  of  all  people  in  the 
world,  ought  to  have  been  able  to  answer  it 
off-hand;  but  it  staggered  me.  Strangely 
enough,  there  came  drifting  across  my  mem 
ory  the  lettering  on  the  back  of  a  metaphys 
ical  work  which  I  had  seen  years  before  on 
a  shelf  in  the  Astor  Library.  Owing  to  an 
unpremeditatedly  funny  collocation  of  title 
and  author,  the  lettering  read  as  follows : 
"Who  am  I?  Jones."  Evidently  it  had 
puzzled  Jones  to  know  who  he  was,  or  he 
would  n't  have  written  a  book  about  it,  and 


58  MISS  MEHETABEUS  SON. 

come  to  so  lame  and  impotent  a  conclusion. 
It  certainly  puzzled  me  at  that  instant  to  de 
fine  my  identity.  "  Thirty  years  ago,"  I  re 
flected,  "  I  was  nothing  ;  fifty  years  hence  I 
shall  be  nothing  again,  humanly  speaking. 
In  the  mean  time,  who  am  I,  sure  enough  ?  " 
It  had  never  before  occurred  to  me  what  an 
indefinite  article  I  was.  I  wish  it  had  not 
occurred  to  me  then.  Standing  there  in  the 
rain  and  darkness,  I  wrestled  vainly  with 
the  problem,  and  was  constrained  to  fall 
back  upon  a  Yankee  expedient. 

"  Isn't  this  a  hotel ?"  I  asked  finally. 

"  Well,  it  is  a  sort  of  hotel,"  said  the 
voice,  doubtfully.  My  hesitation  and  pre 
varication  had  apparently  not  inspired  my 
interlocutor  with  confidence  in  me. 

"  Then  let  me  in.  I  have  just  driven  over 

from  K in  this  infernal  rain.  I  am  wet 

through  and  through." 

"  But  what  do  you  want  here,  at  the  Cor 
ners  ?  What 's  your  business  ?  People 
don't  come  here,  leastways  in  the  middle  of 
the  night." 

"  It  is  n't  in  the  middle  of  the  night,"  I 
returned,  incensed.  "I  come  on  business 
connected  with  the  new  road.  I  'm  the  su 
perintendent  of  the  works." 


MISS  MEHETABEL'S  SON.  59 

"  Oh ! " 

"  And  if  you  don't  open  the  door  at  once, 
I'll  raise  the  whole  neighborhood  —  and 
then  go  to  the  other  hotel." 

When  I  said  that,  I  supposed  Greenton 
was  a  village  with  a  population  of  at  least 
three  or  four  thousand  and  was  wondering 
vaguely  at  the  absence  of  lights  and  other 
signs  of  human  habitation.  Surely,  I 
thought,  all  the  people  cannot  be  abed  and 
asleep  at  half  past  ten  o'clock  :  perhaps  I  am 
in  the  business  section  of  the  town,  among 
the  shops. 

"  You  jest  wait,"  said  the  voice  above. 

This  request  was  not  devoid  of  a  certain 
accent  of  menace,  and  I  braced  myself  for 
a  sortie  on  the  part  of  the  besieged,  if  he 
had  any  such  hostile  intent.  Presently  a 
door  opened  at  the  very  place  where  I  least 
expected  a  door,  at  the  farther  end  of  the 
building,  in  fact,  and  a  man  in  his  shirt 
sleeves,  shielding  a  candle  with  his  left 
hand,  appeared  on  the  threshold.  I  passed 
quickly  into  the  house,  with  Mr.  Tobias 
Sewell  (for  this  was  Mr.  Sewell)  at  my 
heels,  and  found  myself  in  a  long,  low-stud 
ded  bar-room. 

There  were  two  chairs  drawn  up  before 


60  MISS  MEHETABEDS  SON. 

the  hearth,  on  which  a  huge  hemlock  back 
log  was  still  smouldering,  and  on  the  un- 
painted  deal  counter  contiguous  stood  two 
cloudy  glasses  with  bits  of  lemon-peel  in  the 
bottom,  hinting  at  recent  libations.  Against 
the  discolored  wall  over  the  bar  hung  a  yel 
lowed  handbill,  in  a  warped  frame,  announ 
cing  that  "  the  Next  Annual  N.  H.  Agricul 
tural  Fair  "  would  take  place  on  the  10th  of 
September,  1841.  There  was  no  other  fur 
niture  or  decoration  in  this  dismal  apart 
ment,  except  the  cobwebs  which  festooned 
the  ceiling,  hanging  down  here  and  there 
like  stalactites. 

Mr.  Sewell  set  the  candlestick  on  the  man 
tel-shelf,  and  threw  some  pine-knots  on  the 
fire,  which  immediately  broke  into  a  blaze, 
and  showed  him  to  be  a  lank,  narrow-chested 
man,  past  sixty,  with  sparse,  steel-gray  hair, 
and  small,  deep-set  eyes,  perfectly  round, 
like  a  fish's,  and  of  no  particular  color. 
His  chief  personal  characteristics  seemed  to 
be  too  much  feet  and  not  enough  teeth. 
His  sharply  cut,  but  rather  simple  face,  as 
he  turned  it  towards  me,  wore  a  look  of  in 
terrogation.  I  replied  to  his  mute  inquiry 
by  taking  out  my  pocket-book  and  handing 
him  my  business-card,  which  he  held  up  to 


MISS  MEHETABEDS  SON.  61 

the  candle  and  perused  with  great  delibera 
tion. 

"  You  're  a  civil  engineer,  are  you  ?  "  he 
said,  displaying  his  gums,  which  gave  his 
countenance  an  expression  of  almost  infan 
tile  innocence.  He  made  no  further  audi 
ble  remark,  but  mumbled  between  his  thin 
lips  something  which  an  imaginative  person 
might  have  construed  into  "If  you  're  a 
civil  engineer,  I  '11  be  blessed  if  I  would  n't 
like  to  see  an  uncivil  one !  " 

Mr.  Sewell's  growl,  however,  was  worse 
than  his  bite  —  owing  to  his  lack  of  teeth 
probably  —  for  he  very  good-naturedly  set 
himself  to  work  preparing  supper  for  me. 
After  a  slice  of  cold  ham,  and  a  warm 
punch,  to  which  my  chilled  condition  gave  a 
grateful  flavor,  I  went  to  bed  in  a  distant 
chamber  in  a  most  amiable  mood,  feeling 
satisfied  that  Jones  was  a  donkey  to  bother 
himself  about  his  identity. 

When  I  awoke,  the  sun  was  several  hours 
high.  My  bed  faced  a  window,  and  by  rais 
ing  myself  on  one  elbow  I  could  look  out  on 
what  I  expected  would  be  the  main  street. 
To  my  astonishment  I  beheld  a  lonely  coun 
try  road  winding  up  a  sterile  hill  and  disap 
pearing  over  the  ridge.  In  a  cornfield  at 


62  MISS  MEHETABEVS  SON. 

the  right  of  the  road  was  a  small  private 
graveyard,  enclosed  by  a  crumbling  stone 
wall  with  a  red  gate.  The  only  thing  sug 
gestive  of  life  was  this  little  corner  lot 
occupied  by  death.  I  got  out  of  bed  and 
went  to  the  other  window.  There  I  had  an 
uninterrupted  view  of  twelve  miles  of  open 
landscape,  with  Mount  Agamenticus  in  the 
purple  distance.  Not  a  house  or  a  spire  in 
sight.  "  Well,"  I  exclaimed,  "  Greenton 
does  n't  appear  to  be  a  very  closely  packed 
metropolis  !  "  That  rival  hotel  with  which 
I  had  threatened  Mr.  Sewell  overnight  was 
not  a  deadly  weapon,  looking  at  it  by  day 
light.  "  By  Jove  !  "  I  reflected,  "  maybe 
I  'm  in  the  wrong  place."  But  there,  tacked 
against  a  panel  of  the  bedroom  door,  was  a 
faded  time-table  dated  Greenton,  August  1, 
1839. 

I  smiled  all  the  time  I  was  dressing,  and 
went  smiling  down  stairs,  where  I  found  Mr. 
Sewell,  assisted  by  one  of  the  fair  sex  in  the 
first  bloom  of  her  eightieth  year,  serving 
breakfast  for  me  on  a  small  table  —  in  the 
bar-room ! 

"  I  overslept  myself  this  morning,"  I  re 
marked  apologetically,  "  and  I  see  that  I 
am  putting  you  to  some  trouble.  In  future, 


MISS  MEHETABEL'S  SON.  63 

if  you  will  have  me  called,  I  will  take  my 
meals  at  the  usual  table  d'hote" 

"  At  the  what  ?  "  said  Mr.  Sewell. 

"  I  mean  with  the  other  boarders." 

Mr.  Sewell  paused  in  the  act  of  lifting  a 
chop  from  the  fire,  and,  resting  the  point  of 
his  fork  against  the  woodwork  of  the  mantel 
piece,  grinned  from  ear  to  ear. 

"  Bless  you  !  there  is  n't  any  other  board 
ers.  There  has  n't  been  anybody  put  up 
here  sence  —  let  me  see  —  sence  f ather-in- 
law  died,  and  that  was  in  the  fall  of  '40. 
To  be  sure,  there  's  Silas ;  lie  's  a  regular 
boarder ;  but  I  don't  count  him." 

Mr.  Sewell  then  explained  how  the  tavern 
had  lost  its  custom  when  the  old  stage  line 
was  broken  up  by  the  railroad.  The  intro 
duction  of  steam  was,  in  Mr.  Sewell's  esti 
mation,  a  fatal  error.  "Jest  killed  local 
business.  Carried  it  off,  I  'm  darned  if  I 
know  where.  The  whole  country  has  been 
sort  o'  retrograding  ever  sence  steam  was  in 
vented." 

'•You  spoke  of  having  one  boarder,"  I 
said. 

"  Silas  ?  Yes ;  he  come  here  the  summer 
'Tilda  died  —  she  that  was  'Tilda  Bayley  — 
and  he  's  here  yet,  going  on  thirteen  year( 


64  MISS  MEHETABEL'S  SON. 

He  could  n't  live  any  longer  with  the  old 
man.  Between  you  and  I,  old  Clem  Jaffrey, 
Silas's  father,  was  a  hard  nut.  Yes,"  said 
Mr.  Sewell,  crooking  his  elbow  in  inimitable 
pantomime,  "  altogether  too  often.  Found 
dead  in  the  road  hugging  a  three-gallon 
demijohn.  Habeas  corpus  in  the  barn," 
added  Mr.  Sewell,  intending,  I  presume,  to 
intimate  that  a  post-mortem  examination 
had  been  deemed  necessary.  "  Silas,"  he 
resumed,  in  that  respectful  tone  which  one 
should  always  adopt  when  speaking  of  cap 
ital,  "is  a  man  of  considerable  property  ; 
lives  on  his  interest,  and  keeps  a  hoss  and 
shay.  He  's  a  great  scholar,  too,  Silas  ; 
takes  all  the  pe-ri-odicals  and  the  Police 
Gazette  regular." 

Mr.  Sewell  was  turning  over  a  third  chop, 
when  the  door  opened  and  a  stoutish,  mid 
dle-aged  little  gentleman,  clad  in  deep  black, 
stepped  into  the  room. 

"  Silas  Jaffrey,"  said  Mr.  Sewell,  with  a 
comprehensive  sweep  of  his  arm,  picking  up 
me  and  the  new-comer  on  one  fork,  so  to 
speak.  "  Be  acquainted  !  " 

Mr.  Jaffrey  advanced  briskly,  and  gave 
me  his  hand  with  unlooked-for  cordiality. 
He  was  a  dapper  little  man,  with  a  head  as 


MISS  MEHET ABEL'S  SON.  65 

round  and  nearly  as  bald  as  an  orange,  and 
not  unlike  an  orange  in  complexion,  either; 
he  had  twinkling  gray  eyes  and  a  pro 
nounced  Roman  nose,  the  numerous  freckles 
upon  which  were  deepened  by  his  funereal 
dress-coat  and  trousers.  He  reminded  me 
of  Alfred  de  Musset's  blackbird,  which,  with 
its  yellow  beak  and  sombre  plumage,  looked 
like  an  undertaker  eating  an  omelet. 

"  Silas  will  take  care  of  you,"  said  Mr. 
Sewell,  taking  down  his  hat  from  a  peg  be 
hind  the  door.  "  I  Ve  got  the  cattle  to  look 
after.  Tell  him,  if  you  want  anything." 

While  I  ate  my  breakfast,  Mr.  Jaffrey 
hopped  up  and  down  the  narrow  bar-room 
and  chirped  away  as  blithely  as  a  bird  on  a 
cherry-bough,  occasionally  ruffling  with  his 
fingers  a  slight  fringe  of  auburn  hair  which 
stood  up  pertly  round  his  head  and  seemed 
to  possess  a  luminous  quality  of  its  own. 

"  Don't  I  find  it  a  little  slow  up  here  at 
the  Corners?  Not  at  all,  my  dear  sir.  I 
am  in  the  thick  of  life  up  here.  So  many 
interesting  things  going  on  all  over  the  world 
• —  inventions,  discoveries,  spirits,  railroad 
disasters,  mysterious  homicides.  Poets,  mur 
derers,  musicians,  statesmen,  distinguished 
travellers,  prodigies  of  all  kinds  turning  up 


66  MISS  MEHETABEL'S  SON. 

everywhere.  Very  few  events  or  persons 
escape  me.  I  take  six  daily  city  papers, 
thirteen  weekly  journals,  all  the  monthly 
magazines,  and  two  quarterlies.  I  could 
not  get  along  with  less.  I  could  n't  if  you 
asked  me.  I  never  feel  lonely.  How  can  I, 
being  on  intimate  terms,  as  it  were,  with 
thousands  and  thousands  of  people  ?  There 's 
that  young  woman  out  West.  What  an  en 
tertaining  creature  she  is !  —  now  in  Mis 
souri,  now  in  Indiana,  and  now  in  Minne 
sota,  always  on  the  go,  and  all  the  time 
shedding  needles  from  various  parts  of  her 
body  as  if  she  really  enjoyed  it !  Then 
there  's  that  versatile  patriarch  who  walks 
hundreds  of  miles  and  saws  thousands  of 
feet  of  wood,  before  breakfast,  and  shows  no 
signs  of  giving  out.  Then  there 's  that  re 
markable,  one  may  say  that  historical  col 
ored  woman  who  knew  Benjamin  Franklin, 
and  fought  at  the  battle  of  Bunk — no,  it  is 
the  old  negro  man  who  fought  at  Bunker 
Hill,  a  mere  infant,  of  course,  at  that  period. 
Really,  now,  it  is  quite  curious  to  observe 
how  that  venerable  female  slave  —  formerly 
an  African  princess  —  is  repeatedly  dying  in 
her  hundred  and  eleventh  year,  and  coming 
to  life  again  punctually  every  six  months  in 


MISS  MEHET ABEL'S  SON.  67 

the  small-type  paragraphs.  Are  you  aware, 
sir,  that  within  the  last  twelve  years  no 
fewer  than  two  hundred  and  eighty-seven 
of  General  Washington's  colored  coachmen 
have  died  ?  " 

For  the  soul  of  me  I  could  not  tell 
whether  this  quaint  little  gentleman  was 
chaffing  me  or  not.  I  laid  down  my  knife 
and  fork,  and  stared  at  him. 

"  Then  there  are  the  mathematicians  !  " 
he  cried  vivaciously,  without  waiting  for 
a  reply.  "I  take  great  interest  in  them. 
Hear  this !  "  and  Mr.  Jaffrey  drew  a  news 
paper  from  a  pocket  in  the  tail  of  his  coat, 
and  read  as  follows  :  "It  has  been  estimated 
that  if  all  the  candles  manufactured  by  this 
eminent  firm  {Stearine  $•  CYo.)  were  placed 
end  to  end,  they  would  reach  2  and  \  times 
around  the  globe.  Of  course,"  continued 
Mr.  Jaffrey,  folding  up  the  journal  reflec 
tively,  "abstruse  calculations  of  this  kind 
are  not,  perhaps,  of  vital  importance,  but 
they  indicate  the  intellectual  activity  of  the 
age.  Seriously,  now,"  he  said,  halting  in 
front  of  the  table,  "what  with  books  and 
papers  and  drives  about  the  country,  I  do 
not  find  the  days  too  long,  though  I  seldom 
see  any  one,  except  when  I  go  over  to  K 


68  MISS  MEHETABEL'S  BON. 

for  my  mail.  Existence  may  be  very  full  to 
a  man  who  stands  a  little  aside  from  the 
tumult  and  watches  it  with  philosophic  eye. 
Possibly  he  may  see  more  of  the  battle  than 
those  who  are  in  the  midst  of  the  action. 
Once  I  was  struggling  with  the  crowd,  as 
eager  and  undaunted  as  the  best ;  perhaps 
I  should  have  been  struggling  still.  Indeed, 
I  know  my  life  would  have  been  very  dif 
ferent  now  if  I  had  married  Mehetabel  — 
if  I  had  married  Mehetabel." 

His  vivacity  was  gone,  a  sudden  cloud 
had  come  over  his  bright  face,  his  figure 
seemed  to  have  collapsed,  the  light  seemed 
to  have  faded  out  of  his  hair.  With  a  shuf 
fling  step,  the  very  antithesis  of  his  brisk, 
elastic  tread,  he  turned  to  the  door  and 
passed  into  the  road. 

"  Well,"  I  said  to  myself,  "  if  Greenton 
had  forty  thousand  inhabitants,  it  could  n't 
turn  out  a  more  astonishing  old  party  than 
that!" 


MISS  MEHETABEL'S  SON.  69 


II. 

THE  CASE   OF  SILAS   JAFFREY. 

A  MAN  with  a  passion  for  bric-d-brac  is 
always  stumbling  over  antique  bronzes,  in 
taglios,  mosaics,  and  daggers  of  the  time 
of  Benvenuto  Cellini;  the  bibliophile  finds 
creamy  vellum  folios  and  rare  Alduses  and 
Elzevirs  waiting  for  him  at  unsuspected 
bookstalls ;  the  numismatist  has  but  to  stretch 
forth  his  palm,  to  have  priceless  coins  drop 
into  it.  My  own  weakness  is  odd  people, 
and  I  am  constantly  encountering  them.  It 
was  plain  that  I  had  unearthed  a  couple  of 
very  queer  specimens  at  Bayley's  Four-Cor 
ners.  I  saw  that  a  fortnight  afforded  me 
too  brief  an  opportunity  to  develop  the  rich 
ness  of  both,  and  I  resolved  to  devote  my 
spare  time  to  Mr.  Jaffrey  alone,  instinctive 
ly  recognizing  in  him  an  unfamiliar  species. 
My  professional  work  in  the  vicinity  of 
Greenton  left  my  evenings  and  occasionally 
an  afternoon  unoccupied;  these  intervals  I 
purposed  to  employ  in  studying  and  classi- 


70  MJSS  MEHETABEL'S  SON. 

fying  my  fellow-boarder.  It  was  necessary, 
as  a  preliminary  step,  to  learn  something 
of  his  previous  history,  and  to  this  end  I 
addressed  myself  to  Mr.  Sewell  that  same 
night. 

"I  do  not  want  to  seem  inquisitive,"  I 
said  to  the  landlord,  as  he  was  fastening  up 
the  bar,  which,  by  the  way,  was  the  salle  d 
manger  and  general  sitting-room  —  "I  do 
not  want  to  seem  inquisitive,  but  your  friend 
Mr.  Jaffrey  dropped  a  remark  this  morning 
at  breakfast  which  —  which  was  not  alto 
gether  clear  to  me." 

"About  Mehetabel?"  asked  Mr.  Sewell, 
uneasily. 

"Yes." 

"  Well,  I  wish  he  would  n't !  " 

"  He  was  friendly  enough  in  the  course  of 
conversation  to  hint  to  me  that  he  had  not 
married  the  young  woman,  and  seemed  to 
regret  it." 

"  No,  he  did  n't  marry  Mehetabel." 

"  May  I  inquire  why  he  did  n't  marry 
Mehetabel?" 

"  Never  asked  her.  Might  have  married 
the  girl  forty  times.  Old  Elkins's  daughter, 

over  at  K .  She  'd  have  had  him  quick 

enough.  Seven  years,  off  and  on,  he  kept 


MISS  MEHETABEUS  SON.  71 

company  with  Mehetabel,  and  then  she 
died."  " 

"  And  he  never  asked  her  ?  " 

"  He  shilly-shallied.  Perhaps  he  did  n't 
think  of  it.  When  she  was  dead  and  gone, 
then  Silas  was  struck  all  of  a  heap  —  and 
that  's  all  about  it." 

Obviously  Mr.  Sewell  did  not  intend  to 
tell  me  anything  more,  and  obviously  there 
was  more  to  tell.  The  topic  was  plainly  dis 
agreeable  to  him  for  some  reason  or  other, 
and  that  unknown  reason  of  course  piqued 
my  curiosity. 

As  I  was  absent  from  dinner  and  supper 
that  day,  I  did  not  meet  Mr.  Jaffrey  again 
until  the  following  morning  at  breakfast. 
He  had  recovered  his  bird-like  manner,  and 
was  full  of  a  mysterious  assassination  that 
had  just  taken  place  in  New  York,  all  the 
thrilling  details  of  which  were  at  his  fingers' 
ends.  It  was  at  once  comical  and  sad  to 
see  this  harmless  old  gentleman  with  his 
naive,  benevolent  countenance,  and  his  thin 
hair  flaming  up  in  a  semicircle,  like  the  foot 
lights  at  a  theatre,  revelling  in  the  intrica 
cies  of  the  unmentionable  deed. 

"You  come  up  to  my  room  to-night,"  he 
cried,  with  horrid  glee,  "  and  I  '11  give  you 


72  MJSS  MEHETABEVS  SON. 

my  theory  of  the  murder.  I  '11  make  it  as 
clear  as  day  to  you  that  it  was  the  detective 
himself  who  fired  the  three  pistol-shots." 

It  was  not  so  much  the  desire  to  have  this 
point  elucidated  as  to  make  a  closer  study 
of  Mr.  Jaffrey  that  led  me  to  accept  his  in 
vitation.  Mr.  Jaffrey's  bedroom  was  in  an 
L  of  the  building,  and  was  in  no  way  notice 
able  except  for  the  numerous  files  of  news 
papers  neatly  arranged  against  the  blank 
spaces  of  the  walls,  and  a  huge  pile  of  old 
magazines  which  stood  in  one  corner,  reach 
ing  nearly  up  to  the  ceiling,  and  threatening 
to  topple  over  each  instant,  like  the  Leaning 
Tower  at  Pisa.  There  were  green  paper 
shades  at  the  windows,  some  faded  chintz 
valances  about  the  bed,  and  two  or  three 
easy-chairs  covered  with  chintz.  On  a  black- 
walnut  shelf  between  the  windows  lay  a 
choice  collection  of  meerschaum  and  brier- 
wood  pipes. 

Filling  one  of  the  chocolate-colored  bowls 
for  me  and  another  for  himself,  Mr.  Jaffrey 
began  prattling  ;  but  not  about  the  murder, 
which  appeared  to  have  flown  out  of  his 
mind.  In  fact,  I  do  not  remember  that  the 
topic  was  even  touched  upon,  either  then  or 
afterwards. 


MISS  MEHETABEL'S  SON.  73 

"  Cosey  nest  this,"  said  Mr.  Jaffrey, 
glancing  complacently  over  the  apartment. 
"  What  is  more  cheerful,  now,  in  the  fall  of 
the  year,  than  an  open  wood-fire?  Do  you 
hear  those  little  chirps  and  twitters  coming 
out  of  that  piece  of  apple-wood  ?  Those  are 
the  ghosts  of  the  robins  and  bluebirds  that 
sang  upon  the  bough  when  it  was  in  blos 
som  last  spring.  In  summer  whole  flocks 
of  them  come  fluttering  about  the  fruit-trees 
under  the  window :  so  I  have  singing  birds 
all  the  year  round.  I  take  it  very  easy  here, 
I  can  tell  you,  summer  and  winter.  Not 
much  society.  Tobias  is  not,  perhaps,  what 
one  would  term  a  great  intellectual  force, 
but  he  means  well.  He  's  a  realist  —  be 
lieves  in  coming  down  to  what  he  calls  '  the 
hard  pan  ; '  but  his  heart  is  in  the  right 
place,  and  he  's  very  kind  to  me.  The  wisest 
thing  I  ever  did  in  my  life  was  to  sell  out 

my  grain  business  over  at  K ,  thirteen 

years  ago,  and  settle  down  at  the  Corners. 
When  a  man  has  made  a  competency,  what 
does  he  want  more  ?     Besides,  at  that  time 
an  event  occurred  which  destroyed  any  am 
bition  I  may  have  had.     Mehetabel  died." 
"  The  lady  you  were  engaged  to  ?  " 
"  N-o,  not  precisely  engaged.     I  think  it 


74  MISS  MEEETABEDB  SON. 

was  quite  understood  between  us,  though 
nothing  had  been  said  on  the  subject.  Ty 
phoid,"  added  Mr.  Jaffrey,  in  a  low  voice. 

For  several  minutes  he  smoked  in  silence, 
a  vague,  troubled  look  playing  over  his 
countenance.  Presently  this  passed  away, 
and  he  fixed  his  gray  eyes  speculatively  upon 
my  face. 

"  If  I  had  married  Mehetabel,"  said  Mr. 
Jaffrey,  slowly,  and  then  he  hesitated.  I 
blew  a  ring  of  smoke  into  the  air,  and,  rest 
ing  my  pipe  on  my  knee,  dropped  into  an 
attitude  of  attention.  "If  I  had  married 
Mehetabel,  you  know,  we  should  have  had 
—  ahem !  —  a  family." 

"  Very  likely,"  I  assented,  vastly  amused 
at  this  unexpected  turn. 

"  A  Boy !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Jaffrey,  ex 
plosively. 

"  By  all  means,  certainly,  a  son." 

"  Great  trouble  about  naming  the  boy. 
Mehetabel' s  family  want  him  named  Elka- 
nah  Elkins,  after  her  grandfather ;  I  want 
him  named  Andrew  Jackson.  We  compro 
mise  by  christening  him  Elkauah  Elkins 
Andrew  Jackson  Jaffrey.  Rather  a  long 
name  for  such  a  short  little  fellow,"  said 
Mr.  Jaffrey,  musingly. 


MISS  MEHETABEL'S  SON.  75 

"  Andy  is  n't  a  bad  nickname,"  I  sug 
gested. 

"  Not  at  all.  We  call  him  Andy,  in  the 
family.  Somewhat  fractious  at  first  — colic 
and  things.  I  suppose  it  is  right,  or  it 
would  n't  be  so ;  but  the  usefulness  of  mea 
sles,  mumps,  croup,  whooping-cough,  scar 
latina,  and  fits  is  not  clear  to  the  parental 
eye.  I  wish  Andy  would  be  a  model  infant, 
and  dodge  the  whole  lot." 

This  supposititious  child,  born  within  the 
last  few  minutes,  was  plainly  assuming  the 
proportions  of  a  reality  to  Mr.  Jaffrey.  I 
began  to  feel  a  little  uncomfortable.  I  am, 
as  I  have  said,  a  civil  engineer,  and  it  is  not 
strictly  in  my  line  to  assist  at  the  births  of 
infants,  imaginary  or  otherwise.  I  pulled 
away  vigorously  at  the  pipe,  and  said  noth 
ing. 

"  What  large  blue  eyes  he  has,"  resumed 
Mr.  Jaffrey,  after  a  pause  ;  "  just  like  Het 
ty's  ;  and  the  fair  hair,  too,  like  hers.  How 
oddly  certain  distinctive  features  are  hand 
ed  down  in  families!  Sometimes  a  mouth, 
sometimes  a  turn  of  the  eyebrow.  Wicked 

little  boys  over  at  K have  now  and 

then  derisively  advised  me  to  follow  my  nose. 
It  would  be  an  interesting  thing  to  do.  I 


76  MISS  MEHETABEL'S  SON. 

should  find  my  nose  flying  about  the  world, 
turning  up  unexpectedly  here  and  there, 
dodging  this  branch  of  the  family  and  re-ap 
pearing  in  that,  now  jumping  over  one  great 
grandchild  to  fasten  itself  upon  another, 
and  never  losing  its  individuality.  Look 
at  Andy.  There  's  Elkanah  Elkins's  chin  to 
the  life.  Andy's  chin  is  probably  older  than 
the  Pyramids.  Poor  little  thing,"  he  cried, 
with  sudden  indescribable  tenderness,  "  to 
lose  his  mother  so  early !  "  And  Mr.  Jaf- 
frey's  head  sunk  upon  his  breast,  and  his 
shoulders  slanted  forward,  as  if  he  were  ac 
tually  bending  over  the  cradle  of  the  child. 
The  whole  gesture  and  attitude  was  so  nat 
ural  that  it  startled  me.  The  pipe  slipped 
from  my  fingers  and  fell  to  the  floor. 

"  Hush  !  "  whispered  Mr.  Jaffrey,  with  a 
deprecating  motion  of  his  hand.  "  Andy  's 
asleep ! " 

He  rose  softly  from  the  chair  and,  walk 
ing  across  the  room  on  tiptoe,  drew  down 
the  shade  at  the  window  through  which 
the  moonlight  was  streaming.  Then,  he  re 
turned  to  his  seat,  and  remained  gazing  with 
half -closed  eyes  into  the  dropping  embers. 

I  refilled  my  pipe  and  smoked  in  profound 
silence,  wondering  what  would  come  next. 


MISS  MEHETABEL'S  SON.  77 

But  nothing  came  next.  Mr.  Jaffrey  had 
fallen  into  so  brown  a  study  that,  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  afterwards,  when  I  wished  him 
good-night  and  withdrew,  I  do  not  think  he 
noticed  my  departure. 

I  am  not  what  is  called  a  man  of  imagina 
tion  ;  it  is  my  habit  to  exclude  most  things 
not  capable  of  mathematical  demonstration  ; 
but  I  am  not  without  a  certain  psychological 
insight,  and  I  think  I  understood  Mr.  Jaf- 
frey's  case.  I  could  easily  understand  how 
a  man  with  an  unhealthy,  sensitive  nature, 
overwhelmed  by  sudden  calamity,  might  take 
refuge  in  some  forlorn  place  like  this  old 
tavern,  and  dream  his  life  away.  To  such 
a  man  —  brooding  forever  on  what  might 
have  been  and  dwelling  wholly  in  the  realm 
of  his  fancies  —  the  actual  world  might  in 
deed  become  as  a  dream,  and  nothing  seem 
real  but  his  illusions.  I  dare  say  that  thir 
teen  years  of  Bayley's  Four-Corners  would 
have  its  effect  upon  me ;  though  instead  of 
conjuring  up  golden-haired  children  of  the 
Madonna,  I  should  probably  see  gnomes  and 
kobolds,  and  goblins  engaged  in  hoisting 
false  signals  and  misplacing  switches  for 
midnight  express  trains. 

"  No  doubt,"  I  said  to  myself  that  night, 


78  MISS  MEHETABEL'S   SON. 

as  I  lay  in  bed,  thinking  over  the  matter, 
"  this  once  possible  but  now  impossible  child 
is  a  great  comfort  to  the  old  gentleman  — 
a  greater  comfort,  perhaps,  than  a  real  son 
would  be.  Maybe  Andy  will  vanish  with 
the  shades  and  mists  of  night,  he  's  such  an 
unsubstantial  infant ;  but  if  he  does  n't,  and 
Mr.  Jaffrey  finds  pleasure  in  talking  to  me 
about  his  son,  I  shall  humor  the  old  fellow. 
It  would  n't  be  a  Christian  act  to  knock  over 
his  harmless  fancy." 

I  was  very  impatient  to  see  if  Mr.  Jaf- 
frey's  illusion  would  stand  the  test  of  day 
light.  It  did.  Elkanah  Elkins  Andrew 
Jackson  Jaffrey  was,  so  to  speak,  alive  and 
kicking  the  next  morning.  On  taking  his 
seat  at  the  breakfast-table,  Mr.  Jaffrey  whis 
pered  to  me  that  Andy  had  had  a  comforta 
ble  night. 

"  Silas  !  "  said  Mr.  Sewell,  sharply,  "  what 
are  you  whispering  about  ?  " 

Mr.  Sewell  was  in.  an  ill-humor ;  perhaps 
he  was  jealous  because  I  had  passed  the 
evening  in  Mr.  Jaffrey's  room ;  but  surely 
Mr.  Sewell  could  not  expect  his  boarders  to 
go  to  bed  at  eight  o'clock  every  night,  as  he 
did.  From  time  to  time  during  the  meal 
Mr.  Sewell  regarded  me  unkindly  out  of  the 


MISS  MEHETABEUS  SON.  79 

corner  of  his  eye,  and  in  helping  me  to  the 
parsnips  he  poniarded  them  with  quite  a  sug 
gestive  air.  All  this,  however,  did  not  pre 
vent  me  from  repairing  to  the  door  of  Mr. 
Jaffrey's  snuggery  when  night  came. 

"Well,  Mr.  Jaffrey,  how  's  Andy  this 
evening  ?  " 

"  Got  a  tooth !  "  cried  Mr.  Jaffrey,  viva 
ciously. 

"No!" 

"  Yes,  he  has !  Just  through.  Gave  the 
nurse  a  silver  dollar.  Standing  reward  for 
first  tooth." 

It  was  on  the  tip  of  my  tongue  to  express 
surprise  that  an  infant  a  day  old  should  cut 
a  tooth,  when  I  suddenly  recollected  that 
Richard  III.  was  born  with  teeth.  Feeling 
myself  to  be  on  unfamiliar  ground,  I  sup 
pressed  my  criticism.  It  was  well  I  did  so, 
for  in  the  next  breath  I  was  advised  that 
half  a  year  had  elapsed  since  the  previous 
evening. 

"  Andy  's  had  a  hard  six  months  of  it," 
said  Mr.  Jaffrey,  with  the  well-known  narra 
tive  air  of  fathers.  "  We  've  brought  him 
up  by  hand.  His  grandfather,  by  the  way, 
was  brought  up  by  the  bottle "  —  and 
brought  down  by  it,  too,  I  added  mentally, 


80  MISS  MEHETABEL'S  SON. 

recalling  Mr.  Sewell's  account  of  the  old 
gentleman's  tragic  end. 

Mr.  Jaffrey  then  went  on  to  give  me  a 
history  of  Andy's  first  six  months,  omitting 
no  detail  however  insignificant  or  irrelevant. 
This  history  I  would  in  turn  inflict  upon 
the  reader,  if  I  were  only  certain  that  he  is 
one  of  those  dreadful  parents  who,  under  the 
aegis  of  friendship,  bore  you  at  a  street- 
corner  with  that  remarkable  thing  which 
Freddy  said  the  other  day,  and  insist  on 
singing  to  you,  at  an  evening  party,  the 
Iliad  of  Tommy's  woes. 

But  to  inflict  this  enfantillage  upon  the 
unmarried  reader  would  be  an  act  of  wan 
ton  cruelty.  So  I  pass  over  that  part  of 
Andy's  biography,  and,  for  the  same  reason, 
make  no  record  of  the  next  four  or  five  in 
terviews  I  had  with  Mr.  Jaffrey.  It  will  be 
sufficient  to  state  that  Andy  glided  from  ex 
treme  infancy  to  early  youth  with  astonish 
ing  celerity  —  at  the  rate  of  one  year  per 
night,  if  I  remember  correctly ;  and  —  must 
I  confess  it  ?  —  before  the  week  came  to  an 
end,  this  invisible  hobgoblin  of  a  boy  was 
only  little  less  of  a  reality  to  me  than  to  Mr. 
Jaffrey. 

At  first  I   had  lent  myself  to  the  old 


MISS  MEHETABEVS  SON.  81 

dreamer's  whim  with  a  keen  perception  of 
the  humor  of  the  thing;  but  by  and  by  I 
found  that  I  was  talking  and  thinking  of 
Miss  Mehetabel's  son  as  though  he  were  a 
veritable  personage.  Mr.  Jaffrey  spoke  of 
the  child  with  such  an  air  of  conviction !  — 
as  if  Andy  were  playing  among  his  toys  in 
the  next  room,  or  making  mud-pies  down  in 
the  yard.  In  these  conversations,  it  should 
be  observed,  the  child  was  never  supposed  to 
be  present,  except  on  that  single  occasion 
when  Mr.  Jaffrey  leaned  over  the  cradle. 
After  one  of  our  seances  I  would  lie  awake 
until  the  small  hours,  thinking  of  the  boy, 
and  then  fall  asleep  only  to  have  indigestible 
dreams  about  him.  Through  the  day,  and 
sometimes  in  the  midst  of  complicated  cal 
culations,  I  would  catch  myself  wondering 
what  Andy  was  up  to  now !  There  was  no 
shaking  him  off ;  he  became  an  inseparable 
nightmare  to  me  ;  and  I  felt  that  if  I  re 
mained  much  longer  at  Bayley's  Four-Cor 
ners  I  should  turn  into  just  such  another 
bald-headed,  mild-eyed  visionary  as  Silas 
Jaffrey. 

Then  the  tavern  was  a  grewsome  old  shell 
any  way,  full  of  unaccountable  noises  after 
dark  —  rustlings  of  garments  along  unfre- 


82  MISS  MEHETABEV8  SON. 

quented  passages,  and  stealthy  footfalls  in 
unoccupied  chambers  overhead.  I  never 
knew  of  an  old  house  without  these  mys 
terious  noises.  Next  to  my  bedroom  was  a 
musty,  dismantled  apartment,  in  one  corner 
of  which,  leaning  against  the  wainscot,  was 
a  crippled  mangle,  with  its  iron  crank  tilted 
in  the  air  like  the  elbow  of  the  late  Mr. 
Clem  Jaffrey.  Sometimes, 

"  In  the  dead  vast  and  middle  of  the  night," 

I  used  to  hear  sounds  as  if  some  one  were 
turning  that  rusty  crank  on  the  sly.  This 
occurred  only  on  particularly  cold  nights, 
and  I  conceived  the  uncomfortable  idea  that 
it  was  the  thin  family  ghosts,  from  the  neg 
lected  graveyard  in  the  cornfield,  keeping 
themselves  warm  by  running  each  other 
through  the  mangle.  There  was  a  haunted 
air  about  the  whole  place  that  made  it  easy 
for  me  to  believe  in  the  existence  of  a  phan 
tasm  like  Miss  Mehetabel's  son,  who,  after 
all,  was  less  unearthly  than  Mr.  Jaffrey  him 
self,  and  seemed  more  properly  an  inhabitant 
of  this  globe  than  the  toothless  ogre  who 
kept  the  inn,  not  to  mention  the  silent 
Witch  of  Endor  that  cooked  our  meals  for 
us  over  the  bar-room  fire. 

In  spite  of  the  scowls  and  winks  bestowed 


MJSS   MEHETABEL'S   SON.  83 

upon  me  by  Mr.  Sewell,  who  let  slip  no  op 
portunity  to  testify  his  disapprobation  of  the 
intimacy,  Mr.  Jaffrey  and  I  spent  all  our 
evenings  together  —  those  long  autumnal 
evenings,  through  the  length  of  which  he 
talked  about  the  boy,  laying  out  his  path 
in  life  and  hedging  the  path  with  roses.  He 
should  be  sent  to  the  High  School  at  Ports 
mouth,  and  then  to  college  ;  he  should  be 
educated  like  a  gentleman,  Andy. 

"  When  the  old  man  dies,"  remarked  Mr. 
Jaffrey  one  night,  rubbing  his  hands  glee 
fully,  as  if  it  were  a  great  joke,  "  Andy  will 
find  that  the  old  man  has  left  him  a  pretty 
plum." 

"  What  do  you  think  of  having  Andy 
enter  West  Point,  when  he  's  old  enough  ?  " 

9  O 

said  Mr.  Jaffrey  on  another  occasion.  "  He 
need  n't  necessarily  go  into  the  army  when 
he  graduates  ;  he  can  become  a  civil  engi 
neer." 

This  was  a  stroke  of  flattery  so  delicate 
and  indirect  that  I  could  accept  it  without 
immodesty. 

There  had  lately  sprung  up  on  the  corner 
of  Mr.  Jaffrey's  bureau  a  small  tin  house, 
Gothic  in  architecture  and  pink  in  color, 
with  a  slit  in  the  roof,  and  the  word  BANK 


84  MISS  MEHETABEUS  SON. 

painted  on  one  fagade.  Several  times  in  the 
course  of  an  evening  Mr.  Jaffrey  would  rise 
from  his  chair  without  interrupting  the  con 
versation,  and  gravely  drop  a  nickel  into  the 
scuttle  of  the  bank.  It  was  pleasant  to  ob 
serve  the  solemnity  of  his  countenance  as  he 
approached  the  edifice,  and  the  air  of  tri 
umph  with  which  he  resumed  his  seat  by  the 
fireplace.  One  night  I  missed  the  tin  bank. 
It  had  disappeared,  deposits  and  all,  like  a 
real  bank.  Evidently  there  had  been  a  de 
falcation  on  rather  a  large  scale.  I  strongly 
suspected  that  Mr.  Sewell  was  at  the  bottom 
of  it,  but  my  suspicion  was  not  shared  by  Mr. 
Jaffrey,  who,  remarking  my  glance  at  the 
bureau,  became  suddenly  depressed.  "  I  'm 
afraid,"  he  said,  "  that  I  have  failed  to  in 
stil  into  Andrew  those  principles  of  integ 
rity  which  —  which  "  —  and  the  old  gentle 
man  quite  broke  down. 

Andy  was  now  eight  or  nine  years  old, 
and  for  some  time  past,  if  the  truth  must  be 
told,  had  given  Mr.  Jaffrey  no  inconsider 
able  trouble  ;  what  with  his  impishness  and 
his  illnesses,  the  boy  led  the  pair  of  us  a 
lively  dance.  I  shall  not  soon  forget  the 
anxiety  of  Mr.  Jaffrey  the  night  Andy  had 
the  scarlet-fever  —  an  anxiety  which  so  in- 


MISS  MEHEI 'ABEL'S  SON.  85 

fected  me  that  I  actually  returned  to  the 
tavern  the  following  afternoon  earlier  than 
usual,  dreading  to  hear  that  the  little  spec 
tre  was  dead,  and  greatly  relieved  on  meet 
ing  Mr.  Jaffrey  at  the  door-step  with  his 
face  wreathed  in  smiles.  When  I  spoke  to 
him  of  Andy,  I  was  made  aware  that  I  was 
inquiring  into  a  case  of  scarlet-fever  that 
had  occurred  the  year  before ! 

It  was  at  this  time,  towards  the  end  of 
my  second  week  at  Greenton,  that  I  noticed 
what  was  probably  not  a  new  trait  —  Mr. 
Jaffrey 's  curious  sensitiveness  to  atmospher 
ical  changes.  He  was  as  sensitive  as  a  ba 
rometer.  The  approach  of  a  storm  sent  his 
mercury  down  instantly.  When  the  weather 
was  fair  he  was  hopeful  and  sunny,  and 
Andy's  prospects  were  brilliant.  When  the 
weather  was  overcast  and  threatening  he 
grew  restless  and  despondent,  and  was  afraid 
that  the  boy  was  not  going  to  turn  out 
well. 

On  the  Saturday  previous  to  my  depar 
ture,  which  had  been  fixed  for  Monday,  it 
rained  heavily  all  the  afternoon,  and  that 
night  Mr.  Jaffrey  was  in  an  unusually  excit 
able  and  unhappy  frame  of  mind.  His  mer 
cury  was  very  low  indeed. 


86  MISS  MEHETABEL'8  SON. 

"  That  boy  is  going  to  the  dogs  just  as 
fast  as  he  can  go,"  said  Mr.  Jaffrey,  with 
a  woful  face.  "I  can't  do  anything  with 
him." 

"  He  11  come  out  all  right,  Mr.  Jaffrey. 
Boys  will  be  boys.  I  would  not  give  a  snap 
for  a  lad  without  animal  spirits." 

"  But  animal  spirits,"  said  Mr.  Jaffrey 
sententiously,  "  should  n't  saw  off  the  legs  of 
the  piano  in  Tobias's  best  parlor.  I  don't 
know  what  Tobias  will  say  when  he  finds  it 
out." 

"  What !  has  Andy  sawed  off  the  legs  of 
the  old  spinet?"  I  returned,  laughing. 
"  Worse  than  that." 
"  Played  upon  it,  then ! " 
"  No,  sir.     He  has  lied  to  me !  " 
"  I  can't  believe  that  of  Andy." 
"Lied  to  me,  sir,"  repeated  Mr.  Jaffrey, 
severely.      "  He   pledged    me   his   word   of 
honor  that  he  would  give  over  his  climbing. 
The  way  that  boy  climbs  sends  a  chill  down 
my  spine.     This  morning,   notwithstanding 
his  solemn  promise,  he  shinned  up  the  light 
ning-rod  attached  to  the  extension,  and  sat 
astride  the  ridge-pole.     I  saw  him,  and  he 
denied  it !     When  a  boy  you  have  caressed 
and  indulged  and  lavished  pocket-money  on 


MISS  MEHETABEL'S  SON.  87 

lies  to  you  and  will  climb,  then  there 's 
nothing  more  to  be  said.  He 's  a  lost  child." 

"  You  take  too  dark  a  view  of  it,  Mr.  Jaf- 
frey.  Training  and  education  are  bound  to 
tell  in  the  end,  and  he  has  been  well  brought 
up." 

"  But  I  did  n't  bring  him  up  on  a  light 
ning-rod,  did  I?  If  he  is  ever  going  to 
know  how  to  behave,  he  ought  to  know  now. 
To-morrow  he  will  be  eleven  years  old." 

The  reflection  came  to  me  that  if  Andy 
had  not  been  brought  up  by  the  rod,  he  had 
certainly  been  brought  up  by  the  lightning. 
He  was  eleven  years  old  in  two  weeks  ! 

I  essayed,  with  that  perspicacious  wisdom 
which  seems  to  be  the  peculiar  property  of 
bachelors  and  elderly  maiden  ladies,  to  tran 
quillize  Mr.  Jaffrey's  mind,  and  to  give  him 
some  practical  hints  on  the  management  of 
youth. 

"  Spank  him,"  I  suggested  at  last. 

"  I  will !  "  said  the  old  gentleman. 

"  And  you  'd  better  do  it  at  once !  "  I 
added,  as  it  flashed  upon  me  that  in  six 
months  Andy  would  be  a  hundred  and  forty- 
three  years  old !  —  an  age  at  which  parental 
discipline  would  have  to  be  relaxed. 

The  next  morning,  Sunday,  the  rain  came 


88  MJSS  MEHETABEL'S  SON. 

down  as  if  determined  to  drive  the  quick 
silver  entirely  out  of  my  poor  friend.  Mr. 
Jaffrey  sat  bolt  upright  at'  the  breakfast- 
table,  looking  as  woe-begone  as  a  bust  of 
Dante,  and  retired  to  his  chamber  the  mo 
ment  the  meal  was  finished.  As  the  day 
advanced,  the  wind  veered  round  to  the 
northeast,  and  settled  itself  down  to  work. 
It  was  not  pleasant  to  think,  and  I  tried  not 
to  think,  what  Mr.  Jaffrey's  condition  would 
be  if  the  weather  did  not  mend  its  manners 
by  noon;  but  so  far  from  clearing  off  at 
noon,  the  storm  increased  in  violence,  and 
as  night  set  in  the  wind  whistled  in  a  spite 
ful  falsetto  key,  and  the  rain  lashed  the  old 
tavern  as  if  it  were  a  balky  horse  that  re 
fused  to  move  on.  The  windows  rattled  in 
the  worm-eaten  frames,  and  the  doors  of 
remote  rooms,  where  nobody  ever  went, 
slammed  to  in  the  maddest  way.  Now  and 
then  the  tornado,  sweeping  down  the  side 
of  Mount  Agamenticus,  bowled  across  the 
open  country,  and  struck  the  ancient  hos 
telry  point-blank. 

Mr.  Jaffrey  did  not  appear  at  supper.  I 
knew  that  he  was  expecting  me  to  come 
to  his  room  as  usual,  and  I  turned  over  in 
my  mind  a  dozen  plans  to  evade  seeing  him 


MISS  MEHET ABEL'S  SON.  89 

that  night.  The  landlord  sat  at  the  op 
posite  side  of  the  chimney-place,  with  his 
eye  upon  me.  I  fancy  he  was  aware  of  the 
effect  of  this  storm  on  his  other  boarder, 
for  at  intervals,  as  the  wind  hurled  itself 
against  the  exposed  gable,  threatening  to 
burst  in  the  windows,  Mr.  Sewell  tipped  me 
an  atrocious  wink,  and  displayed  his  gums 
in  a  way  he  had  not  done  since  the  morning 
after  my  arrival  at  Greenton.  I  wondered 
if  he  suspected  anything  about  Andy.  There 
had  been  odd  times  during  the  past  week 
when  I  felt  convinced  that  the  existence  of 
Miss  Mehetabel's  son  was  no  secret  to  Mr. 
Sewell. 

In  deference  to  the  gale,  the  landlord  sat 
up  half  an  hour  later  than  was  his  custom. 
At  half-past  eight  he  went  to  bed,  remark 
ing  that  he  thought  the  old  pile  would  stand 
till  morning. 

He  had  been  absent  only  a  few  minutes 
when  I  heard  a  rustling  at  the  door.  I 
looked  up,  and  beheld  Mr.  Jaffrey  standing 
on  the  threshold,  with  his  dress  in  disorder, 
his  scant  hair  flying,  and  the  wildest  expres 
sion  on  his  face. 

"  He 's  gone !  "  cried  Mr.  Jaffrey. 

"Who?  Sewell?  Yes,  he  just  went  to 
bed." 


90  MISS  MEHETABEDS  SON. 

"  No,  not  Tobias  —  the  boy  !  " 

"  What,  run  away  ?  " 

"  No  —  he  is  dead  !  He  has  fallen  from  a 
step-ladder  in  the  red  chamber  and  broken 
his  neck !  " 

Mr.  Jaffrey  threw  up  his  hands  with  a 
gesture  of  despair,  and  disappeared.  I  fol 
lowed  him  through  the  hall,  saw  him  go  into 
his  own  apartment,  and  heard  the  bolt  of 
the  door  drawn  to.  Then  I  returned  to  the 
bar-room,  and  sat  for  an  hour  or  two  in  the 
ruddy  glow  of  the  fire,  brooding  over  the 
strange  experience  of  the  last  fortnight. 

On  my  way  to  bed  I  paused  at  Mr.  Jaf- 
frey's  door,  and,  in  a  lull  of  the  storm,  the 
measured  respiration  within  told  me  that 
the  old  gentleman  was  sleeping  peacefully. 

Slumber  was  coy  with  me  that  night.  I 
lay  listening  to  the  soughing  of  the  wind, 
and  thinking  of  Mr.  Jaffrey's  illusion.  It 
had  amused  me  at  first  with  its  grotesque- 
ness  ;  but  now  the  poor  little  phantom  was 
dead,  I  was  conscious  that  there  had  been 
something  pathetic  in  it  all  along.  Shortly 
after  midnight  the  wind  sunk  down,  com 
ing  and  going  fainter  and  fainter,  floating 
around  the  eaves  of  the  tavern  with  an  un 
dulating,  murmurous  sound,  as  if  it  were 


AfISS  MEHETABEL'S  SON.  91 

turning  itself  into  soft  wings  to  bear  away 
the  spirit  of  a  little  child. 

Perhaps  nothing  that  happened  during 
my  stay  at  Bayley's  Four-Corners  took  me 
so  completely  by  surprise  as  Mr.  Jaffrey's 
radiant  countenance  the  next  morning.  The 
morning  itself  was  not  fresher  or  sunnier. 
His  round  face  literally  shone  with  genial 
ity  and  happiness.  His  eyes  twinkled  like 
diamonds,  and  the  magnetic  light  of  his  hair 
was  turned  on  full.  He  came  into  my  room 
while  I  was  packing  my  valise.  He  chirped, 
and  prattled,  and  carolled,  and  was  sorry  I 
was  going  away  —  but  never  a  word  about 
Andy.  However,  the  boy  had  probably  been 
dead  several  years  then  ! 

The  open  wagon  that  was  to  carry  me  to 
the  station  stood  at  the  door ;  Mr.  Sewell 
was  placing  my  case  of  instruments  under 
the  seat,  and  Mr.  Jaffrey  had  gone  up  to  his 
room  to  get  me  a  certain  newspaper  contain 
ing  an  account  of  a  remarkable  shipwreck 
on  the  Auckland  Islands.  I  took  the  op 
portunity  to  thank  Mr.  Sewell  for  his  cour 
tesies  to  me,  and  to  express  my  regret  at 
leaving  him  and  Mr.  Jaffrey. 

"  I  have  become  very  much  attached  to 
Mr.  Jaffrey,"  I  said ;  "  he  is  a  most  inter- 


92  MISS  MEHETABEL'S  SON. 

esting  person  ;  but  that  hypothetical  boy  of 
his,  that  son  of  Miss  Mehetabel's  "  — 

"Yes,  I  know!  "  interrupted  Mr.  Sewell, 
testily.  "  Fell  off  a  step-ladder  and  broke 
his  dratted  neck.  Eleven  year  old,  was  n't 
he  ?  Always  does,  jest  at  that  point.  Next 
week  Silas  will  begin  the  whole  thing  over 
again,  if  he  can  get  anybody  to  listen  to 
him." 

"  I  see.  Our  amiable  friend  is  a  little 
queer  on  that  subject." 

Mr.  Sewell  glanced  cautiously  over  his 
shoulder,  and,  tapping  himself  significantly 
on  the  forehead,  said  in  a  low  voice, 

"  Eoom  To  Let  —  Unfurnished !  " 


OUR  NEW   NEIGHBORS  AT 
PONKAPOG. 

WHEN  I  saw  the  little  house  building,  an 
eighth  of  a  mile  beyond  my  own,  on  the  Old 
Bay  Road,  I  wondered  who  were  to  be  the 
tenants.  The  modest  structure  was  set  well 
back  from  the  road,  among  the  trees,  as  if 
the  inmates  were  to  care  nothing  whatever 
for  a  view  of  the  stylish  equipages  which 
sweep  by  during  the  summer  season.  For 
my  part,  I  like  to  see  the  passing,  in  town  or 
country ;  but  each  has  his  own  unaccount 
able  taste.  The  proprietor,  who  seemed  to 
be  also  the  architect  of  the  new  house,  su 
perintended  the  various  details  of  the  work 
with  an  assiduity  that  gave  me  a  high  opin 
ion  of  his  intelligence  and  executive  ability, 
and  I  congratulated  myself  on  the  prospect 
of  having  some  very  agreeable  neighbors. 

It  was  quite  early  in  the  spring,  if  I  re 
member,  when  they  moved  into  the  cottage 
—  a  newly  married  couple,  evidently :  the 
wife  very  young,  pretty,  and  with  the  air  of 


94       OUR  NEW  NEIGHBORS  AT  PONKAPOG. 

a  lady  ;  the  husband  somewhat  older,  but 
still  in  the  first  flush  of  manhood.  It  was 
understood  in  the  village  that  they  came 
from  Baltimore  ;  but  no  one  knew  them  per 
sonally,  and  they  brought  no  letters  of  intro 
duction.  (For  obvious  reasons  I  refrain  from 
mentioning  names.)  It  was  clear  that,  for 
the  present  at  least,  their  own  company  was 
entirely  sufficient  for  them.  They  made  no 
advances  toward  the  acquaintance  of  any  of 
the  families  in  the  neighborhood,  and  conse 
quently  were  left  to  themselves.  That,  ap 
parently,  was  what  they  desired,  and  why 
they  came  to  Ponkapog.  For  after  its  black 
bass  and  wild  duck  and  teal,  solitude  is  the 
chief  staple  of  Ponkapog.  Perhaps  its  per 
fect  rural  loveliness  should  be  included. 
Lying  high  up  under  the  wing  of  the  Blue 
Hills,  and  in  the  odorous  breath  of  pines 
and  cedars,  it  chances  to  be  the  most  en 
chanting  bit  of  unlaced  dishevelled  country 
within  fifty  miles  of  Boston,  which,  more 
over,  can  be  reached  in  half  an  hour's  ride 
by  railway.  But  the  nearest  railway  sta 
tion  (Heaven  be  praised !)  is  two  miles 
distant,  and  the  seclusion  is  without  a  flaw. 
Ponkapog  has  one  mail  a  day  ;  two  mails  a 
day  would  render  the  place  uninhabitable. 


OUR  NEW  NEIGHBORS  AT  PONKAPOG.       95 

The  village  —  it  looks  like  a  compact  vil 
lage  at  a  distance,  but  unravels  and  disap 
pears  the  moment  you  drive  into  it  —  has 
quite  a  large  floating  population.  I  do  not 
allude  to  the  perch  and  pickerel  in  Ponk- 
apog  Pond.  Along  the  Old  Bay  Road,  a 
highway  even  in  the  colonial  days,  there  are 
a  number  of  attractive  villas  and  cottages 
straggling  off  towards  Milton,  which  are  oc 
cupied  for  the  summer  by  people  from  the 
city.  These  birds  of  passage  are  a  distinct 
class  from  the  permanent  inhabitants,  and 
the  two  seldom  closely  assimilate  unless 
there  has  been  some  previous  connection.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  our  new  neighbors  were 
to  come  under  the  head  of  permanent  inhab 
itants  ;  they  had  built  their  own  house,  and 
had  the  air  of  intending  to  live  in  it  all  the 
year  round. 

"Are  you  not  going  to  call  on  them?" 
I  asked  my  wife  one  morning. 

"  When  they  call  on  ws,"  she  replied 
lightly. 

"  But  it  is  our  place  to  call  first,  they 
being  strangers." 

This  was  said  as  seriously  as  the  circum 
stance  demanded ;  but  my  wife  turned  it  off 
with  a  laugh,  and  I  said  no  more,  always 
trusting  to  her  intuitions  in  these  matters. 


96        OUR  NEW  NEIGHBORS  AT  PONKAPOG. 

She  was  right.  She  would  not  have  been 
received,  and  a  cool  "  Not  at  home  "  would 
have  been  a  bitter  social  pill  to  us  if  we  had 
gone  out  of  our  way  to  be  courteous. 

I  saw  a  great  deal  of  our  neighbors,  never 
theless.  Their  cottage  lay  between  us  and 
the  post-office  —  where  he  was  never  to  be 
met  with  by  any  chance  —  and  I  caught  fre 
quent  glimpses  of  the  two  working  in  the 
garden.  Floriculture  did  not  appear  so 
much  an  object  as  exercise.  Possibly  it  was 
neither;  may  be  they  were  engaged  in  dig 
ging  for  specimens  of  those  arrowheads  and 
flint  hatchets  which  are  continually  coming 
to  the  surface  hereabouts.  There  is  scarcely 
an  acre  in  which  the  ploughshare  has  not 
turned  up  some  primitive  stone  weapon  or 
domestic  utensil,  disdainfully  left  to  us  by 
the  red  men  who  once  held  this  domain  — 
an  ancient  tribe  called  the  Punkypoags, 
a  forlorn  descendant  of  which,  one  Polly 
Crowd,  figures  in  the  annual  Blue  Book, 
down  to  the  close  of  the  Southern  war,  as  a 
state  pensioner.  At  that  period  she  appears 
to  have  struck  a  trail  to  the  Happy  Hunting 
Grounds.  I  quote  from  the  local  historiog 
rapher. 

Whether  they  were  developing  a  kitchen- 


OUR  NEW  NEIGHBORS  AT  PONKAPOG.       97 

garden,  or  emulating  Professor  Schliemann 
at  Mycena3,  the  new-comers  were  evidently 
persons  of  refined  musical  taste  :  the  lady 
had  a  contralto  voice  of  remarkable  sweet 
ness,  although  of  no  great  compass,  and  I 
used  often  to  linger  of  a  morning  by  the 
high  gate  and  listen  to  her  executing  an 
arietta,  conjecturally  at  some  window  up 
stairs,  for  the  house  was  not  visible  from  the 
turnpike.  The  husband,  somewhere  about 
the  grounds,  would  occasionally  respond  with 
two  or  three  bars.  It  was  all  quite  an  ideal, 
Arcadian  business.  They  seemed  very  happy 
together,  these  two  persons,  who  asked  no 
odds  whatever  of  the  community  in  which 
they  had  settled  themselves. 

There  was  a  queerness,  a  sort  of  mystery, 
about  this  couple  which  I  admit  piqued  my 
curiosity,  though  as  a  rule  I  have  no  morbid 
interest  in  the  affairs  of  my  neighbors.  They 
behaved  like  a  pair  of  lovers  who  had  run 
off  and  got  married  clandestinely.  I  wil 
lingly  acquitted  them,  however,  of  having 
done  anything  unlawful ;  for,  to  change  a 
word  in  the  lines  of  the  poet, 

"It  is  a  joy  to  think  the  best 
We  may  of  human  kind." 

Admitting  the  hypothesis  of  elopement,  there 


98       OUR  NEW  NEIGHBORS  AT  PONKAPOG. 

was  no  mystery  in  their  neither  sending  nor 
receiving  letters.  But  where  did  they  get 
their  groceries?  I  do  not  mean  the  money 
to  pay  for  them  —  that  is  an  enigma  apart 
—  but  the  groceries  themselves.  No  express 
wagon,  no  butcher's  cart,  no  vehicle  of  any 
description,  was  ever  observed  to  stop  at 
their  domicile.  Yet  they  did  not  order  fam 
ily  stores  at  the  sole  establishment  in  the 
village  —  an  inexhaustible  little  bottle  of  a 
shop  which,  I  advertise  it  gratis,  can  turn 
out  anything  in  the  way  of  groceries,  from  a 
handsaw  to  a  pocket-handkerchief.  I  con 
fess  that  I  allowed  this  unimportant  detail 
of  their  menage  to  occupy  more  of  my  spec 
ulation  than  was  creditable  to  me. 

In  several  respects  our  neighbors  reminded 
me  of  those  inexplicable  persons  we  some 
times  come  across  in  great  cities,  though 
seldom  or  never  in  suburban  places,  where 
the  field  may  be  supposed  too  restricted  for 
their  operations  —  persons  who  have  no  per 
ceptible  means  of  subsistence,  and  manage 
to  live  royally  on  nothing  a  year.  They  hold 
no  government  bonds,  they  possess  no  real 
estate  (our  neighbors  did  own  their  house), 
they  toil  not,  neither  do  they  spin ;  yet  they 
reap  all  the  numerous  soft  advantages  that 


OUR  NEW  NEIGHBORS  AT  PONKAPOG.       99 

usually  result  from  honest  toil  and  skilful 
spinning.  How  do  they  do  it?  But  this  is  a 
digression,  and  I  am  quite  of  the  opinion  of 
the  old  lady  in  "  David  Copperfield,"  who 
says,  "  Let  us  have  no  meandering !  " 

Though  my  wife  had  declined  to  risk  a 
ceremonious  call  on  our  neighbors  as  a  fam 
ily,  I  saw  no  reason  why  I  should  not  speak 
to  the  husband  as  an  individual,  when  I 
happened  to  encounter  him  by  the  wayside. 
I  made  several  approaches  to  do  so,  when  it 
occurred  to  my  penetration  that  my  neigh 
bor  had  the  air  of  trying  to  avoid  me.  I 
resolved  to  put  the  suspicion  to  the  test,  and 
one  forenoon,  when  he  was  sauntering  along 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  road,  in  the 
vicinity  of  Fisher's  sawmill,  I  deliberately 
crossed  over  to  address  him.  The  brusque 
manner  in  which  he  hurried  away  was  not 
to  be  misunderstood.  Of  course  I  was  not 
going  to  force  myself  upon  him. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  I  began  to  formu 
late  uncharitable  suppositions  touching  our 
neighbors,  and  would  have  been  as  well 
pleased  if  some  of  my  choicest  fruit  trees 
had  not  overhung  their  wall.  I  determined 
to  keep  my  eyes  open  later  in  the  season, 
when  the  fruit  should  be  ripe  to  pluck.  In 


100     OUR  NEW  NEIGHBORS  AT  PONKAPOG. 

some  folks,  a  sense  of  the  delicate  shades  of 
difference  between  meum  and  tuum  does  not 
seem  to  be  very  strongly  developed  in  the 
Moon  of  Cherries,  to  use  the  old  Indian 
phrase. 

I  was  sufficiently  magnanimous  not  to 
impart  any  of  these  sinister  impressions  to 
the  families  with  whom  we  were  on  visiting 
terms ;  for  I  despise  a  gossip.  I  would  say 
nothing  against  the  persons  up  the  road 
until  I  had  something  definite  to  say.  My 
interest  in  them  was  —  well,  not  exactly 
extinguished,  but  burning  low.  I  met  the 
gentleman  at  intervals,  and  passed  him  with 
out  recognition  ;  at  rarer  intervals  I  saw  the 
lady. 

After  a  while  I  not  only  missed  my  occa 
sional  glimpses  of  her  pretty,  slim  figure, 
always  draped  in  some  soft  black  stuff  with 
a  bit  of  scarlet  at  the  throat,  but  I  inferred 
that  she  did  not  go  about  the  house  singing 
in  her  light-hearted  manner,  as  formerly. 
What  had  happened  ?  Had  the  honeymoon 
suffered  eclipse  already?  Was  she  ill?  I 
fancied  she  was  ill,  and  that  I  detected  a 
certain  anxiety  in  the  husband,  who  spent 
the  mornings  digging  solitarily  in  the  gar 
den,  and  seemed  to  have  relinquished  those 


OUR  NEW  NEIGHBORS  AT  PONKAPOG.     101 

long  jaunts  to  the  brow  of  Blue  Hill,  where 
there  is  a  superb  view  of  all  Norfolk  County 
combined  with  sundry  venerable  rattlesnakes 
with  twelve  rattles. 

As  the  days  went  by  it  became  certain 
that  the  lady  was  confined  to  the  house,  per 
haps  seriously  ill,  possibly  a  confirmed  in 
valid.  Whether  she  was  attended  by  a  phy 
sician  from  Canton  or  from  Milton,  I  was 
unable  to  say ;  but  neither  the  gig  with  the 
large  white  allopathic  horse,  nor  the  gig  with 
the  homoeopathic  sorrel  mare,  was  ever  seen 
hitched  at  the  gate  during  the  day.  If  a 
physician  had  charge  of  the  case,  he  visited 
his  patient  only  at  night.  All  this  moved 
my  sympathy,  and  I  reproached  myself  with 
having  had  hard  thoughts  of  our  neighbors. 
Trouble  had  come  to  them  early.  I  would 
have  liked  to  offer  them  such  small,  friendly 
services  as  lay  in  my  power ;  but  the  mem 
ory  of  the  repulse  I  had  sustained  still  ran 
kled  in  me.  So  I  hesitated. 

One  morning  my  two  boys  burst  into  the 
library  with  their  eyes  sparkling. 

"  You  know  the  old  elm  down  the  road  ?  " 
cried  one. 

"Yes." 


102    OUR  NEW  NEIGHBORS  AT  PONKAPOG. 

"  The  elm  with  the  hang-bird's  nest  ? " 
shrieked  the  other. 

"  Yes,  yes !  " 

"Well,  we  both  just -climbed  up,  and 
there 's  three  young  ones  in  it !  " 

Then  I  smiled  to  think  that  our  new 
neighbors  had  got  such  a  promising  little 
family. 


A  MIDNIGHT  FANTASY. 
I. 

IT  was  close  upon  eleven  o'clock  when  I 
stepped  out  of  the  rear  vestibule  of  the  Bos 
ton  Theatre,  and,  passing  through  the  nar 
row  court  that  leads  to  West  Street,  struck 
across  the  Common  diagonally.  Indeed,  as 
I  set  foot  on  the  Tremont  Street  mall,  I 
heard  the  Old  South  drowsily  sounding  the 
hour. 

It  was  a  tranquil  June  night,  with  no 
moon,  but  clusters  of  sensitive  stars  that 
seemed  to  shiver  with  cold  as  the  wind  swept 
by  them ;  for  perhaps  there  was  a  swift  cur 
rent  of  air  up  there  in  the  zenith.  However, 
not  a  leaf  stirred  on  the  Common ;  the  foliage 
hung  black  and  massive,  as  if  cut  in  bronze  ; 
even  the  gaslights  appeared  to  be  infected  by 
the  prevailing  calm,  burning  steadily  behind 
their  glass  screens  and  turning  the  neighbor 
ing  leaves  into  the  tenderest  emerald.  Here 
and  there,  in  the  sombre  row  of  houses 
stretching  along  Beacon  Street,  an  illumi- 


104  A  MIDNIGHT  FANTASY. 

nated  window  gilded  a  few  square  feet  of 
darkness ;  and  now  and  then  a  footfall 
sounded  on  a  distant  pavement.  The  pulse 
of  the  city  throbbed  languidly. 

The  lights  far  and  near,  the  fantastic 
shadows  of  the  elms  and  maples,  the  gather 
ing  dew,  the  elusive  odor  of  new  grass,  and 
that  peculiar  hush  which  belongs  only  to 
midnight  —  as  if  Time  had  paused  in  his 
flight  and  were  holding  his  breath  —  gave  to 
the  place,  so  familiar  to  me  by  day,  an  air 
of  indescribable  strangeness  and  remoteness. 
The  vast,  deserted  park  had  lost  all  its 
wonted  outlines ;  I  walked  doubtfully  on  the 
flagstones  which  I  had  many  a  time  helped 
to  wear  smooth ;  I  seemed  to  be  wandering 
in  some  lonely  unknown  garden  across  the 
seas  —  in  that  old  garden  in  Verona  where 
Shakespeare's  ill-starred  lovers  met  and 
parted.  The  white  granite  fagade  over  yon 
der  —  the  Somerset  Club  —  might  well  have 
been  the  house  of  Capulet :  there  was  the 
clambering  vine  reaching  up  like  a  pliant 
silken  ladder;  there,  near  by,  was  the  low- 
hung  balcony,  wanting  only  the  slight  girlish 
figure  —  immortal  shape  of  fire  and  dew !  — 
to  make  the  illusion  perfect. 

I  do  not  know  what  suggested  it ;  perhaps 


A  MIDNIGHT  FANTASY.  105 

it  was  something  in  the  play  I  had  just  wit 
nessed  —  it  is  not  always  easy  to  put  one's 
finger  on  the  invisible  electric  thread  that 
runs  from  thought  to  thought  —  but  as  I 
sauntered  on  I  fell  to  thinking  of  the  ill-as 
sorted  marriages  I  had  known.  Suddenly 
there  hurried  along  the  gravelled  path  which 
crossed  mine  obliquely  a  half -indistinguisha 
ble  throng  of  pathetic  men  and  women  :  two 
by  two  they  filed  before  me,  each  becoming 
startlingly  distinct  for  an  instant  as  they 
passed  —  some  with  tears,  some  with  hollow 
smiles,  and  some  with  firm-set  lips,  bearing 
their  fetters  with  them.  There  was  little 
Alice  chained  to  old  Bowlsby ;  there  was 
Lucille,  "  a  daughter  of  the  gods,  divinely 
tall,"  linked  forever  to  the  dwarf  Perry  win 
kle  ;  there  was  my  friend  Porphyro,  the 
poet,  with  his  delicate  genius  shrivelled  in 
the  glare  of  the  youngest  Miss  Lucifer's 
eyes ;  there  they  were,  Beauty  and  the 
Beast,  Pride  and  Humility,  Bluebeard  and 
Fatima,  Prose  and  Poetry,  Riches  and  Pov 
erty,  Youth  and  Crabbed  Age  —  Oh,  sorrow 
ful  procession  !  All  so  wretched,  when  per 
haps  all  might  have  been  so  happy  if  they 
had  only  paired  differently  ! 

I  halted  a  moment  to  let  the  weird  shapes 


106  A  MIDNIGHT  FANTASY. 

drift  by.  As  the  last  of  the  train  melted 
into  the  darkness,  my  vagabond  fancy  went 
wandering  back  to  the  theatre  and  the  play 
I  had  seen  —  Romeo  and  Juliet.  Taking  a 
lighter  tint,  but  still  of  the  same  sober  color, 
my  reflections  continued. 

What  a  different  kind  of  woman  Juliet 
would  have  been  if  she  had  not  fallen  in 
love  with  Romeo,  but  had  bestowed  her  affec 
tion  on  some  thoughtful  and  stately  signior 
—  on  one  of  the  Delia  Scalas,  for  example ! 
What  Juliet  needed  was  a  firm  and  gentle 
hand  to  tame  her  high  spirit  without  break 
ing  a  pinion.  She  was  a  little  too  —  viva 
cious,  you  might  say  —  "  gushing  "  would 
perhaps  be  the  word  if  you  were  speaking 
of  a  modern  maiden  with  so  exuberant  a 
disposition  as  Juliet's.  She  was  too  ro 
mantic,  too  blossomy,  too  impetuous,  too 
wilful ;  old  Capulet  had  brought  her  up  in 
judiciously,  and  Lady  Capulet  was  a  nonen 
tity.  Yet  in  spite  of  faults  of  training  and 
some  slight  inherent  flaws  of  character, 
Juliet  was  a  superb  creature ;  there  was  a 
fascinating  dash  in  her  frankness  ;  her  mod 
esty  and  daring  were  as  happy  rhymes  as 
ever  touched  lips  in  a  love-poem.  But  her 
impulses  required  curbing  ;  her  heart  made 


A  MIDNIGHT  FANTASY.  107 

too  many  beats  to  the  minute.  It  was  an 
evil  destiny  that  flung  in  the  path  of  so  rich 
and  passionate  a  nature  a  fire-brand  like 
Romeo.  Even  if  no  family  feud  had  existed, 
the  match  would  not  have  been  a  wise  one. 
As  it  was,  the  well-known  result  was  inevi 
table.  What  could  come  of  it  but  clandes 
tine  meetings,  secret  marriage,  flight,  de 
spair,  poison,  and  the  Tomb  of  the  Capulets  ? 
I  had  left  the  park  behind,  by  this,  and 
had  entered  a  thoroughfare  where  the  street- 
lamps  were  closer  together ;  but  the  gloom 
of  the  trees  seemed  still  to  be  overhanging 
me.  The  fact  is,  the  tragedy  had  laid  a 
black  finger  on  my  imagination.  I  wished 
that  the  play  had  ended  a  trifle  more  cheer 
fully.  I  wished  —  possibly  because  I  see 
enough  tragedy  all  around  me  without  going 
to  the  theatre  for  it,  or  possibly  it  was  be 
cause  the  lady  who  enacted  the  leading 
part  was  a  remarkably  clean-cut  little  per 
son,  with  a  golden  sweep  of  eyelashes  —  I 
wished  that  Juliet  could  have  had  a  more 
comfortable  time  of  it.  Instead  of  a  yawn 
ing  sepulchre,  with  Romeo  and  Juliet  dying 
in  the  middle  foreground,  and  that  luckless 
young  Paris  stretched  out  on  the  left,  spit 
ted  like  a  spring-chicken  with  Montague's 


108  A  MIDNIGHT  FANTASY. 

rapier,  and  Friar  Laurence,  with  a  dark  lan 
tern,  groping  about  under  the  melancholy 
yews  —  in  place  of  all  this  costly  piled-up 
woe,  I  would  have  liked  a  pretty,  mediaeval 
chapel  scene,  with  illuminated  stained-glass 
windows,  and  trim  acolytes  holding  lighted 
candles,  and  the  great  green  curtain  slowly 
descending  to  the  first  few  bars  of  the  Wed 
ding  March  of  Mendelssohn. 

Of  course  Shakespeare  was  true  to  the 
life  in  making  them  all  die  miserably.  Be 
sides,  it  was  so  they  died  in  the  novel  of 
Matteo  Bandello,  from  which  the  poet  indi 
rectly  took  his  plot.  Under  the  circum 
stances  no  other  climax  was  practicable ; 
and  yet  it  was  sad  business.  There  were 
Mercutio,  and  Tybalt,  and  Paris,  and  Ju 
liet,  and  Romeo,  come  to  a  bloody  end  in 
the  bloom  of  their  youth  and  strength  and 
beauty. 

The  ghosts  of  these  five  murdered  persons 
seemed  to  be  on  my  track  as  I  hurried  down 
Revere  Street  to  West  Cedar.  I  fancied 
them  hovering  around  the  corner  opposite 
the  small  drug-store,  where  a  meagre  apothe 
cary  was  in  the  act  of  shutting  up  the  fan- 
like  jets  of  gas  in  his  shop- window. 

"  No,  Master  Booth,"  I  muttered  in  the 


A  MIDNIGHT  FANTASY.  109 

imagined  teeth  of  the  tragedian,  throwing 
an  involuntary  glance  over  my  shoulder, 
"  you  '11  not  catch  me  assisting  at  any  more 
of  your  Shakespearean  revivals.  I  would 
rather  eat  a  pair  of  Welsh  rarebits  or  a  seg 
ment  of  mince-pie  at  midnight  than  sit 
through  the  finest  tragedy  that  was  ever 
writ." 

As  I  said  this  I  halted  at  the  door  of  a 
house  in  Charles  Place,  and  was  fumbling 
for  my  latch-key,  when  a  most  absurd  idea 
came  into  my  head.  I  let  the  key  slip  back 
into  my  pocket,  and  strode  down  Charles 
Place  into  Cambridge  Street,  and  across  the 
long  bridge,  and  then  swiftly  forward. 

I  remember,  vaguely,  that  I  paused  for  a 
moment  on  the  draw  of  the  bridge,  to  look 
at  the  semi-circular  fringe  of  lights  duplicat 
ing  itself  in  the  smooth  Charles  in  the  rear 
of  Beacon  Street  —  as  lovely  a  bit  of  Vene 
tian  effect  as  you  will  get  outside  of  Venice ; 
I  remember  meeting,  farther  on,  near  a  stiff 
wooden  church  in  Cambridgeport,  a  lumber 
ing  covered  wagon,  evidently  from  Brighton 
and  bound  for  Quincy  Market ;  and  still 
farther  on,  somewhere  in  the  vicinity  of 
Harvard  Square  and  the  college  buildings,  I 
recollect  catching  a  glimpse  of  a  policeman, 


110  A  MIDNIGHT  FANTASY. 

who,  probably  observing  something  suspi 
cious  in  my  demeanor,  discreetly  walked  off 
in  an  opposite  direction.  I  recall  these  tri 
fles  indistinctly,  for  during  this  preposterous 
excursion  I  was  at  no  time  sharply  conscious 
of  my  surroundings ;  the  material  world  pre 
sented  itself  to  me  as  if  through  a  piece 
of  stained  glass.  It  was  only  when  I  had 
reached  a  neighborhood  where  the  houses 
were  few  and  the  gardens  many,  a  neighbor 
hood  where  the  closely-knitted  town  began 
to  fringe  out  into  country,  that  I  came  to 
the  end  of  my  dream.  And  what  was  the 
dream  ?  The  slightest  of  tissues,  madam ; 
a  gossamer,  a  web  of  shadows,  a  thing  woven 
out  of  starlight.  Looking  at  it  by  day, 
I  find  that  its  colors  are  pallid,  and  its 
threaded  diamonds  —  they  were  merely  the 
perishable  dews  of  that  June  night  —  have 
evaporated  in  the  sunshine ;  but  such  as  it 
is  you  shall  have  it. 


A  MIDNIGHT  FANTASY.  Ill 


II. 


THE  young  prince  Hamlet  was  not  happy 
at  Elsinore.  It  was  not  because  he  missed 
the  gay  student-life  of  Wittenberg,  and  that 
the  little  Danish  court  was  intolerably  dull. 
It  was  not  because  the  didactic  lord  cham 
berlain  bored  him  with  long  speeches,  or 
that  the  lord  chamberlain's  daughter  was 
become  a  shade  wearisome.  Hamlet  had 
more  serious  cues  for  unhappiness.  He  had 
been  summoned  suddenly  from  Wittenberg 
to  attend  his  father's  funeral ;  close  upon 
this,  and  while  his  grief  was  green,  his 
mother  had  married  with  his  uncle  Claudius, 
whom  Hamlet  had  never  liked. 

The  indecorous  haste  of  these  nuptials  — 
they  took  place  within  two  months  after  the 
king's  death,  the  funeral-baked  meats,  as 
Hamlet  cursorily  remarked,  furnishing  forth 
the  marriage  -  tables  —  struck  the  young 
prince  aghast.  He  had  loved  the  queen  his 
mother,  and  had  nearly  idolized  the  late 
king  ;  but  now  he  forgot  to  lament  the  death 


112  A  MIDNIGHT  FANTASY. 

of  the  one  in  contemplating  the  life  of  the 
other.  The  billing  and  cooing  of  the  newly- 
married  couple  filled  him  with  horror.  An 
ger,  shame,  pity,  and  despair  seized  upon 
him  by  turns.  He  fell  into  a  forlorn  con 
dition,  forsaking  his  books,  eating  little  save 
of  the  chameleon's  dish,  the  air,  drinking 
deep  of  Rhenish,  letting  his  long,  black 
locks  go  unkempt,  and  neglecting  his  dress 
—  he  who  had  hitherto  been  "the  glass  of 
fashion  and  the  mould  of  form,"  as  Ophelia 
had  prettily  said  of  him. 

Often  for  half  the  night  he  would  wander 
along  the  ramparts  of  the  castle,  at  the  im 
minent  risk  of  tumbling  off,  gazing  seaward 
and  muttering  strangely  to  himself,  and 
evolving  frightful  spectres  out  of  the  shad 
ows  cast  by  the  turrets.  Sometimes  he 
lapsed  into  a  gentle  melancholy ;  but  not 
seldom  his  mood  was  ferocious,  and  at  such 
times  the  conversational  Polonius,  with  a  dis 
cretion  that  did  him  credit,  steered  clear  of 
my  lord  Hamlet. 

He  turned  no  more  graceful  compliments 
for  Ophelia.  The  thought  of  marrying  her, 
if  he  had  ever  seriously  thought  of  it,  was 
gone  now.  He  rather  ruthlessly  advised  her 
to  go  into  a  nunnery.  His  mother  had  sick- 


A  MIDNIGHT  FANTASY.  113 

ened  him  of  women.  It  was  of  her  he 
spoke  the  notable  words,  "  Frailty,  thy  name 
is  woman !  "  which,  some  time  afterwards, 
an  amiable  French  gentleman  had  neatly  en 
graved  on  the  head-stone  of  his  wife,  who 
had  long  been  an  invalid.  Even  the  king 
and  queen  did  not  escape  Hamlet  in  his  dis 
tempered  moments.  Passing  his  mother  in 
a  corridor  or  on  a  staircase  of  the  palace,  he 
would  suddenly  plant  a  verbal  dagger  in 
her  heart ;  and  frequently,  in  full  court,  he 
would  deal  the  king  such  a  cutting  reply  as 
caused  him  to  blanch,  and  gnaw  his  lip. 

If  the  spectacle  of  Gertrude  and  Clau 
dius  was  hateful  to  Hamlet,  the  presence  of 
Hamlet,  on  the  other  hand,  was  scarcely  a 
comfort  to  the  royal  lovers.  At  first  his  un 
cle  had  called  him  "  our  chiefest  courtier, 
cousin,  and  our  son,"  trying  to  smooth  over 
matters  ;  but  Hamlet  would  have  none  of  it. 
Therefore,  one  day,  when  the  young  prince 
abruptly  announced  his  intention  to  go 
abroad,  neither  the  king  nor  the  queen 
placed  impediments  in  his  way,  though, 
some  months  previously,  they  had  both  pro 
tested  strongly  against  his  returning  to  Wit 
tenberg. 

The  small-fry  of  the  court  knew  nothing 


114  A  MIDNIGHT  FANTASY. 

of  Prince  Hamlet's  determination  until  he 
had  sailed  from  Elsinore  ;  their  knowledge 
then  was  confined  to  the  fact  of  his  depart 
ure.  It  was  only  to  Horatio,  his  fellow- 
student  and  friend,  that  Hamlet  confided 
the  real  cause  of  his  self-imposed  exile, 
though  perhaps  Ophelia  half  suspected  it. 

Polonius  had  dropped  an  early  hint  to  his 
daughter  concerning  Hamlet's  intent.  She 
knew  that  everything  was  over  between 
them,  and  the  night  before  he  embarked 
Ophelia  placed  in  the  prince's  hand  the  few 
letters  and  trinkets  he  had  given  her,  re 
peating,  as  she  did  so,  a  certain  distich 
which  somehow  haunted  Hamlet's  memory 
for  several  days  after  he  was  on  shipboard  : 

"  Take  these  again ;  for  to  the  noble  mind 
Rich  gifts  wax  poor  when  givers  prove  unkind." 

"  These  could  never  have  waxed  poor," 
said  Hamlet  softly  to  himself,  as  he  leaned 
over  the  taffrail,  the  third  day  out,  spread 
ing  the  trinkets  in  his  palm,  "being  origi 
nally  of  but  little  worth.  I  fancy  that  that 
allusion  to  '  rich  gifts  '  was  a  trifle  malicious 
on  the  part  of  the  fair  Ophelia ;  "  and  he 
quietly  dropped  them  into  the  sea. 

It  was  as  a  Danish  gentleman  voyaging 
for  pleasure,  and  for  mental  profit  also,  if 


A  MIDNIGHT  FANTASY.  115 

that  should  happen,  that  Hamlet  set  forth 
on  his  travels.  Settled  destination  he  had 
none,  his  sole  plan  being  to  get  clear  of 
Denmark  as  speedily  as  possible,  and  then 
to  drift  whither  his  fancy  took  him.  His 
fancy  naturally  took  him  southward,  as  it 
would  have  taken  him  northward  if  he  had 
been  a  Southron.  Many  a  time  while  climb 
ing  the  bleak  crags  around  Elsinore  he  had 
thought  of  the  land  of  the  citron  and  the 
palm;  lying  on  his  couch  at  night,  and  lis 
tening  to  the  wind  as  it  howled  along  the 
machicolated  battlements  of  the  castle,  his 
dreams  had  turned  from  the  cold,  blonde 
ladies  of  his  father's  court  to  the  warmer 
beauties  that  ripen  under  sunny  skies.  He 
was  free  now  to  test  the  visions  of  his  boy 
hood.  So  it  chanced,  after  various  wander 
ings,  all  tending  imperceptibly  in  one  direc 
tion,  that  Hamlet  bent  his  steps  towards 
Italy. 

In  those  rude  days  one  did  not  accom 
plish  a  long  journey  without  having  wonder 
ful  adventures  befall,  or  encountering  divers 
perils  by  the  way.  It  was  a  period  when  a 
stout  blade  on  the  thigh  was  a  most  excel 
lent  travelling  companion.  Hamlet,  though 
of  a  philosophical  complexion,  was  not  slower 


116  A  MIDNIGHT  FANTASY. 

than  another  man  to  scent  an  affront ;  he 
excelled  at  feats  of  arms,  and  no  doubt  his 
skill,  caught  of  the  old  fencing-master  at 
Elsinore,  stood  him  in  good  stead  more  than 
once  when  his  wit  would  not  have  saved 
him.  Certainly,  he  had  hair-breadth  es 
capes  while  toiling  through  the  wilds  of 
Prussia  and  Bavaria  and  Switzerland.  At 
all  events,  he  counted  himself  fortunate  the 
night  he  arrived  at  Verona  with  nothing 
more  serious  than  a  two-inch  scratch  on  his 
sword  arm. 

There  he  lodged  himself,  as  became  a  gen 
tleman  of  fortune,  in  a  suite  of  chambers  in 
a  comfortable  palace  overlooking  the  swift- 
flowing  Adige  - —  a  riotous  yellow  stream 
that  cut  the  town  into  two  parts,  and  was 
spanned  here  and  there  by  rough-hewn 
stone  bridges,  which  it  sometimes  sportively 
washed  away.  It  was  a  brave  old  town  that 
had  stood  sieges  and  plagues,  and  was  full 
of  mouldy,  picturesque  buildings  and  a  gay- 
ety  that  has  since  grown  somewhat  mouldy. 
A  goodly  place  to  rest  in  for  the  wayworn 
pilgrim  !  He  dimly  recollected  that  he  had 
letters  to  one  or  two  illustrious  families; 
but  he  cared  not  to  deliver  them  at  once. 
It  was  pleasant  to  stroll  about  the  city,  un- 


A  MIDNIGHT  FANTASY.  117 

known.  There  were  sights  to  see :  the  Ro 
man  amphitheatre,  and  the  churches  with 
their  sculptured  sarcophagi  and  saintly  rel 
ics  —  interesting  joints  and  saddles  of  mar 
tyrs,  and  enough  fragments  of  the  true  cross 
to  build  a  ship.  The  life  in  the  piazze  and 
on  the  streets,  the  crowds  in  the  shops,  the 
pageants,  the  lights,  the  stir,  the  color,  all 
mightily  took  the  eye  of  the  young  Dane. 
He  was  in  a  mood  to  be  amused.  Every 
thing  diverted  him  —  the  faint  pulsing  of  a 
guitar-string  in  an  adjacent  garden  at  mid 
night,  or  the  sharp  clash  of  gleaming  sword 
blades  under  his  window,  when  the  Mon- 
tecchi  and  the  Cappelletti  chanced  to  en 
counter  each  other  in  the  narrow  footway. 

Meanwhile,  Hamlet  brushed  up  his  Ital 
ian.  He  was  well  versed  in  the  literature 
of  the  language,  particularly  in  its  dramatic 
literature,  and  had  long  meditated  penning 
a  gloss  to  "  The  Murther  of  Gonzago,"  a 
play  which  Hamlet  held  in  deservedly  high 
estimation. 

He  made  acquaintances,  too.  In  the 
same  palace  where  he  sojourned  lived  a 
very  valiant  soldier  and  wit,  a  kinsman  to 
Prince  Escalus,  one  Mercutio  by  name, 
with  whom  Hamlet  exchanged  civilities  on 


118  A  MIDNIGHT  FANTASY. 

the  staircase  at  first,  and  then  fell  into  com 
panionship.  A  number  of  Verona's  noble 
youths,  poets  and  light-hearted  men-about- 
town,  frequented  Mercutio's  chambers,  and 
with  these  Hamlet  soon  became  on  terms. 

Among  the  rest  were  an  agreeable  gen 
tleman,  with  hazel  eyes,  named  Benvolio, 
and  a  gallant  young  fellow  called  Romeo, 
whom  Mercutio  bantered  pitilessly  and 
loved  heartily.  This  Romeo,  who  belonged 
to  one  of  the  first  families,  was  a  very  sus 
ceptible  spark,  which  the  slightest  breath 
of  a  pretty  woman  was  sufficient  to  blow 
into  flame.  To  change  the  metaphor,  he  fell 
from  one  love  affair  into  another  as  easily 
and  logically  as  a  ripe  pomegranate  drops 
from  a  bough.  He  was  generally  unlucky 
in  these  matters,  curiously  enough,  for  he 
was  a  handsome  youth  in  his  saffron  satin 
doublet  slashed  with  black,  and  his  jaunty 
velvet  bonnet  with  its  trailing  plume  of  os 
trich  feather. 

At  the  time  of  Hamlet's  coming  to  Ve 
rona,  Romeo  was  in  a  great  despair  of  love 
in  consequence  of  an  unrequited  passion  for 
a  certain  lady  of  the  city,  between  whose 
family  and  his  own  a  deadly  feud  had  ex 
isted  for  centuries.  Somebody  had  stepped 


A  MIDNIGHT  FANTASY.  119 

on  somebody  else's  lap-dog  in  the  far  ages, 
and  the  two  families  had  been  slashing  and 
hacking  at  each  other  ever  since.  It  ap 
peared  that  Romeo  had  scaled  a  garden 
wall,  one  night,  and  broken  upon  the  med 
itations  of  his  inamorata,  who,  as  chance 
would  have  it,  was  sitting  on  her  balcony  en 
joying  the  moonrise.  No  lady  could  be  in 
sensible  to  such  devotion,  for  it  would  have 
been  death  to  Romeo  if  any  of  her  kinsmen 
had  found  him  in  that  particular  locality. 
Some  tender  phrases  passed  between  them, 
perhaps ;  but  the  lady  was  flurried,  taken 
unawares,  and  afterwards,  it  seemed,  altered 
her  mind,  and  would  have  no  further  com 
merce  with  the  Montague.  This  business 
furnished  Mercutio's  quiver  with  innumera 
ble  sly  shafts,  which  Romeo  received  for  the 
most  part  in  good  humor. 

With  these  three  gentlemen  —  Mercutio, 
Benvolio,  and  Romeo  —  Hamlet  saw  life  in 
Verona,  as  young  men  will  see  life  wherever 
they  happen  to  be.  Many  a  time  the  night 
ingale  ceased  singing  and  the  lark  began 
before  they  were  abed  ;  but  perhaps  it  is 
not  wise  to  inquire  too  closely  into  this.  A 
month  had  slipped  away  since  Hamlet's  ar 
rival  ;  the  hyacinths  were  opening  in  the 
gardens,  and  it  was  spring. 


120  A  MIDNIGHT  FANTASY. 

One  morning,  as  he  and  Mercutio  were 
lounging  arm  in  arm  on  a  bridge  near  their 
lodgings,  they  met  a  knave  in  livery  puzzling 
over  a  parchment  which  he  was  plainly  un 
able  to  decipher. 

"  Read  it  aloud,  friend  !  "  cried  Mercutio, 
who  always  had  a  word  to  throw  away. 

"  I  would  I  could  read  it  at  all.  I  pray, 
sir,  can  you  read  ?  " 

"  With  ease  —  if  it  is  not  my  tailor's 
score ;  "  and  Mercutio  took  the  parchment, 
which  ran  as  follows :  — 

"  Signior  Martino,  and  his  wife  and 
daughters;  County  Anselmo,  and  his 
beauteous  sisters;  the  lady  widow  Vitru- 
vio ;  Signior  Placentio,  and  his  lovely 
nieces;  Mercutio,  and  his  brother  Valen 
tine  ;  mine  uncle  Capulet,  his  wife  and 
daughters  ;  my  fair  niece  Rosaline  ;  Lima  ; 
Signior  Valentio,  and  his  cousin  Tybalt ; 
JLfUcio,  and  the  lively  Helena" 

"  A  very  select  company,  with  the  excep 
tion  of  that  rogue  Mercutio,"  said  the  sol 
dier,  laughing.  "  What  does  it  mean  ?  " 

"  My  master,  the  Signior  Capulet,  gives  a 
ball  and  supper  to-night ;  these  the  guests  ; 
I  am  his  man  Peter,  and  if  you  be  not  one 
of  the  house  of  Montague,  I  pray  come  and 


A  MIDNIGHT  FANTASY.  121 

crush  a  cup  of  wine  with  us.  Rest  you 
merry ;  "  and  the  knave,  having  got  his  bil 
let  deciphered  for  him,  made  off. 

"  One  must  needs  go,  being  asked  by  both 
man  and  master ;  but  since  I  am  asked 
doubly,  I  '11  not  go  singly ;  I  '11  bring  you 
with  me,  Hamlet.  It  is  a  masquerade  ;  I 
have  had  wind  of  it.  The  flower  of  the  city 
will  be  there  —  all  the  high-bosomed  roses 
and  low-necked  lilies." 

Hamlet  had  seen  nothing  of  society  in 
Verona,  properly  speaking,  and  did  not  re 
quire  much  urging  to  assent  to  Mercutio's 
proposal,  far  from  foreseeing  that  so  slight 
a  freak  would  have  a  fateful  sequence. 

It  was  late  in  the  night  when  they  pre 
sented  themselves,  in  mask  and  domino,  at 
the  Capulet  mansion.  The  music  was  at 
its  sweetest  and  the  torches  were  at  their 
brightest,  as  the  pair  entered  the  dancing- 
hall.  They  had  scarcely  crossed  the  thresh 
old  when  Hamlet's  eyes  rested  upon  a  lady 
clad  in  a  white  silk  robe,  who  held  to  her 
features,  as  she  moved  through  the  figure  of 
the  dance,  a  white  satin  mask,  on  each  side 
of  which  was  disclosed  so  much  of  the  rosy 
oval  of  her  face  as  made  one  long  to  look 
upon  the  rest.  The  ornaments  this  lady 


122  A  MIDNIGHT  FANTASY. 

wore  were  pearls ;  her  fan  and  slippers,  like 
the  robe  and  mask,  were  white  —  nothing 
but  white.  Her  eyes  shone  almost  black 
contrasted  with  the  braids  of  warm  gold  hair 
that  glistened  through  a  misty  veil  of  Vene 
tian  stuff,  which  floated  about  her  from  time 
to  time  and  enveloped  her,  as  the  blossoms 
do  a  tree.  Hamlet  could  think  of  nothing 
but  the  almond-tree  that  stood  in  full  bloom 
in  the  little  cortile  near  his  lodging.  She 
seemed  to  him  the  incarnation  of  that  ex 
quisite  spring-time  which  had  touched  and 
awakened  all  the  leaves  and  buds  in  the 
sleepy  old  gardens  around  Verona. 

"  Mercutio  !    who  is  that  lady  ?  " 

"  The  daughter  of  old  Capulet,  by  her 
stature." 

"  And  he  that  dances  with  her  ?  " 

"  Paris,  a  kinsman  to  Can  Grande  della 
Scala." 

"  Her  lover  ?  " 

"  One  of  them." 

"  She  has  others  ?  " 

"  Enough  to  make  a  squadron ;  only  the 
blind  and  aged  are  exempt." 

Here  the  music  ceased  and  the  dancers 
dispersed.  Hamlet  followed  the  lady  with 
his  eyes,  and,  seeing  her  left  alone  a  mo- 


A  MIDNIGHT  FANTASY.  123 

ment,  approached  her.  She  received  him 
graciously,  as  a  mask  receives  a  mask,  and 
the  two  fell  to  talking,  as  people  do  who 
have  nothing  to  say  to  each  other  and  pos 
sess  the  art  of  saying  it.  Presently  some 
thing  in  his  voice  struck  on  her  ear,  a  new 
note,  an  intonation  sweet  and  strange,  that 
made  her  curious.  Who  was  it  ?  It  could 
not  be  Valentine,  nor  Anselmo ;  he  was  too 
tall  for  Signior  Placentio,  not  stout  enough 
for  Lucio ;  it  was  not  her  cousin  Tybalt. 
Could  it  be  that  rash  Montague  who  — 
Would  he  dare  ?  Here,  on  the  very  points 
of  their  swords  ?  The  stream  of  maskers 
ebbed  and  flowed  and  surged  around  them, 
and  the  music  began  again,  and  Juliet  lis 
tened  and  listened. 

"  Who  are  you,  sir,"  she  cried,  at  last, 
"  that  speak  our  tongue  with  feigned  ac 
cent?" 

"  A  stranger ;  an  idler  in  Verona,  though 
not  a  gay  one  —  a  black  butterfly." 

"  Our  Italian  sun  will  gild  your  wings  for 
you.  Black  edged  with  gilt  goes  gay." 

"I  am  already  not  so  sad-colored  as  I 
was." 

"  I  would  fain  see  your  face,  sir ;  if  it 
match  your  voice,  it  needs  must  be  a  kindly 
one." 


124  A  MIDNIGHT  FANTASY. 

"  I  would  we  could  change  faces." 

"  So  we  shall  at  supper !  " 

"  And  hearts,  too  ?  " 

"  Nay,  I  would  not  give  a  merry  heart  for 
a  sorrowful  one  ;  but  I  will  quit  my  mask, 
and  you  yours ;  yet,"  and  she  spoke  under 
her  breath,  "  if  you  are,  as  I  think,  a  gen 
tleman  of  Verona  —  a  Montague  —  do  not 
unmask." 

"  I  am  not  of  Verona,  lady ;  no  one  knows 
me  here ;  "  and  Hamlet  threw  back  the  hood 
of  his  domino.  Juliet  held  her  mask  aside 
for  a  moment,  and  the  two  stood  looking 
into  each  other's  eyes. 

"  Lady,  we  have  in  faith  changed  faces, 
at  least  as  I  shall  carry  yours  forever  in  my 
memory." 

"  And  I  yours,  sir,"  said  Juliet,  softly, 
"  wishing  it  looked  not  so  pale  and  melan 
choly." 

"  Hamlet,"  whispered  Mercutio,  plucking 
at  his  friend's  skirt,  "  the  fellow  there,  talk 
ing  with  old  Capulet  —  his  wife's  nephew, 
Tybalt,  a  quarrelsome  dog  —  suspects  we 
are  Montagues.  Let  us  get  out  of  this 
peaceably,  like  soldiers  who  are  too  much 
gentlemen  to  cause  a  brawl  under  a  host's 
roof." 


A  MIDNIGHT  FANTASY.  125 

With  this  Mercutio  pushed  Hamlet  to 
the  door,  where  they  were  joined  by  Ben- 
volio.  Juliet,  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
retreating  maskers,  stretched  out  her  hand 
and  grasped  the  arm  of  an  ancient  serving- 
woman  who  happened  to  be  passing. 

"  Quick,  good  Nurse !  go  ask  his  name 
of  yonder  gentleman.  Nay,  not  the  one  in 
green,  dear !  but  he  that  hath  the  black 
domino  and  purple  mask.  What,  did  I 
touch  your  poor  rheumatic  arm?  Ah,  go 
now,  sweet  Nurse  !  " 

As  the  Nurse  hobbled  off  querulously  on 
her  errand,  Juliet  murmured  to  herself  an 
old  rhyme  she  knew  :  — 

"  If  he  be  married, 
My  grave  is  like  to  be  my  wedding  bed !  " 

When  Hamlet  got  back  to  his  own  cham 
bers  he  sat  on  the  edge  of  his  couch  in  a 
brown  study.  The  silvery  moonlight,  strug 
gling  through  the  swaying  branches  of  a 
tree  outside  the  window,  drifted  doubtfully 
into  the  room,  and  made  a  parody  of  that 
fleecy  veil  which  erewhile  had  floated  about 
the  lissome  form  of  the  lovely  Capulet. 
That  he  loved  her,  and  must  tell  her  that 
he  loved  her,  was  a  foregone  conclusion ; 
but  how  should  he  contrive  to  see  Juliet 


126  A  MIDNIGHT  FANTASY. 

again  ?  No  one  knew  him  in  Verona ;  he 
had  carefully  preserved  his  incognito ;  even 
Mercutio  regarded  him  as  simply  a  young 
gentleman  from  Denmark,  taking  his  ease 
in  a  foreign  city.  Presented,  by  Mercutio, 
as  a  rich  Danish  tourist,  the  Capulets  would 
receive  him  courteously,  of  course ;  as  a  vis 
itor,  but  not  as  a  suitor.  It  was  in  another 
character  that  he  must  be  presented  —  his 
own. 

He  was  pondering  what  steps  he  could 
take  to  establish  his  identity,  when  he  re 
membered  the  two  or  three  letters  which  he 
had  stuffed  into  his  wallet  on  quitting  Elsi- 
nore.  He  lighted  a  taper,  and  began  exam 
ining  the  papers.  Among  them  were  the 
half  dozen  billet-doux  which  Ophelia  had 
returned  to  him  the  night  before  his  depar 
ture.  They  were  neatly  tied  together  by  a 
length  of  black  ribbon,  to  which  was  at 
tached  a  sprig  of  rosemary. 

"  That  was  just  like  Ophelia !  "  muttered 
the  young  man,  tossing  the  package  into  the 
wallet  again  ;  "  she  was  always  having  cheer 
ful  ideas  like  that." 

How  long  ago  seemed  the  night  she  had 
handed  him  these  love-letters,  in  her  demure 
little  way !  How  misty  and  remote  seemed 


A  MIDNIGHT  FANTASY.  127 

everything  connected  with  the  old  life  at 
Elsinore  !  His  father's  death,  his  mother's 
marriage,  his  anguish  and  isolation  —  they 
were  like  things  that  had  befallen  somebody 
else.  There  was  something  incredible,  too, 
in  his  present  situation.  Was  he  dreaming? 
Was  he  really  in  Italy,  and  in  love  ? 

He  hastily  bent  forward  and  picked  up 
a  square  folded  paper  lying  half  concealed 
under  the  others. 

"  How  could  I  have  forgotten  it !  "  he  ex 
claimed. 

It  was  a  missive  addressed,  in  Horatio's 
angular  hand,  to  the  Signior  Capulet  of  Ve 
rona,  containing  a  few  lines  of  introduction 
from  Horatio,  whose  father  had  dealings 
with  some  of  the  rich  Lombardy  merchants 
and  knew  many  of  the  leading  families  in 
the  city.  With  this  and  several  epistles, 
preserved  by  chance,  written  to  him  by 
Queen  Gertrude  while  he  was  at  the  uni 
versity,  Hamlet  saw  that  he  would  have  no 
difficulty  in  proving  to  the  Capulets  that  he 
was  the  Prince  of  Denmark. 

At  an  unseemly  hour  the  next  morning 
Mercutio  was  roused  from  his  slumbers  by 
Hamlet,  who  counted  every  minute  a  hun 
dred  years  until  he  saw  Juliet.  Mercutio 


128  A  MIDNIGHT  FANTASY. 

did  not  take  this  interruption  too  patiently, 
for  the  honest  humorist  was  very  serious  as 
a  sleeper ;  but  his  equilibrium  was  quickly 
restored  by  Hamlet's  revelation. 

The  friends  were  long  closeted  together, 
and  at  the  proper,  ceremonious  hour  for 
visitors  they  repaired  to  the  house  of  Capu- 
let,  who  did  not  hide  his  sense  of  the  honor 
done  him  by  the  prince.  "With  scarcely  any 
prelude  Hamlet  unfolded  the  motive  of  his 
visit,  and  was  listened  to  with  rapt  attention 
by  old  Capulet,  who  inwardly  blessed  his 
stars  that  he  had  not  given  his  daughter's 
hand  to  the  County  Paris,  as  he  was  on  the 
point  of  doing.  The  ladies  were  not  visible 
on  this  occasion ;  the  fatigues  of  the  ball  over 
night,  etc. ;  but  that  same  evening  Hamlet 
was  accorded  an  interview  with  Juliet  and 
Lady  Capulet,  and  a  few  days  subsequently 
all  Verona  was  talking  of  nothing  but  the 
new  engagement. 

The  destructive  Tybalt  scowled  at  first, 
and  twirled  his  fierce  mustache,  and  young 
Paris  took  to  writing  dejected  poetry;  but 
they  both  soon  recovered  their  serenity,  see 
ing  that  nobody  minded  them,  and  went  to 
gether  arm  in  arm  to  pay  their  respects  to 
Hamlet. 


A  MIDNIGHT  FANTASY.  129 

A  new  life  began  now  for  Hamlet.  He 
shed  his  inky  cloak,  and  came  out  in  a  doub 
let  of  insolent  splendor,  looking  like  a  dag 
ger-handle  newly  gilt.  With  his  funereal 
gear  he  appeared  to  have  thrown  off  some 
thing  of  his  sepulchral  gloom.  It  was  im 
possible  to  be  gloomy  with  Juliet,  in  whom 
each  day  developed  some  sunny  charm  un- 
guessed  before.  Her  freshness  and  coquet 
tish  candor  were  constant  surprises.  She 
had  had  many  lovers,  and  she  confessed  them 
to  Hamlet  in  the  prettiest  way.  "  Perhaps, 
my  dear,"  she  said  to  him  one  evening,  with 
an  ineffable  smile,  "  I  might  have  liked 
young  Romeo  very  well,  but  the  family  were 
so  opposed  to  it  from  the  very  first.  And 
then  he  was  so  —  so  demonstrative,  don't  you 
know?" 

Hamlet  had  known  of  Romeo's  futile  pas 
sion,  but  he  had  not  been  aware  until  then 
that  his  betrothed  was  the  heroine  of  the 
balcony  adventure.  On  leaving  Juliet  he 
went  to  look  up  the  Montague  ;  not  for  the 
purpose  of  crossing  rapiers  with  him,  as  an 
other  man  might  have  done,  but  to  compli 
ment  him  on  his  unexceptionable  taste  in 
admiring  so  rare  a  lady. 

But  Romeo  had  disappeared  in  a  most  un- 


130  A  MIDNIGHT  FANTASY. 

accountable  manner,  and  his  family  were  in 
great  tribulation  concerning  him.  It  was 
thought  that  perhaps  the  unrelenting  Ro 
saline  (who  had  been  Juliet's  frigid  prede 
cessor)  had  relented,  and  Montague's  man 
Abram  was  dispatched  to  seek  Romeo  at  her 
residence ;  but  the  Lady  Rosaline,  who  was 
embroidering  on  her  piazza,  placidly  denied 
all  knowledge  of  him.  It  was  then  feared 
that  he  had  fallen  in  one  of  the  customary 
encounters ;  but  there  had  been  no  fight, 
and  nobody  had  been  killed  on  either  side 
for  nearly  twelve  hours.  Nevertheless,  his 
exit  had  the  appearance  of  being  final. 
When  Hamlet  questioned  Mercutio,  the  hon 
est  soldier  laughed  and  stroked  his  blonde 
mustache. 

"  The  boy  has  gone  off  in  a  heat,  I  don't 
know  where  —  to  the  icy  ends  of  the  earth, 
I  believe,  to  cool  himself." 

Hamlet  regretted  that  Romeo  should  have 
had  any  feeling  in  the  matter;  but  regret 
was  a  bitter  weed  that  did  not  thrive  well 
in  the  atmosphere  in  which  the  fortunate 
lover  was  moving.  He  saw  Juliet  every 
day,  and  there  was  not  a  fleck  upon  his  hap 
piness,  unless  it  was  the  garrulous  Nurse, 
against  whom  Hamlet  had  taken  a  singular 


A   MIDNIGHT  FANTASY.  131 

prejudice.  He  considered  her  a  tiresome 
old  person,  not  too  decent  in  her  discourse  at 
times,  and  advised  Juliet  to  get  rid  of  her ; 
but  the  ancient  serving-woman  had  been  in 
the  family  for  years,  and  it  was  not  quite 
expedient  to  discharge  her  at  that  late  day. 

With  the  subtile  penetration  of  old  age 
the  Nurse  instantly  detected  Hamlet's  dis 
like,  and  returned  it  heartily. 

"  Ah,  ladybird,"  she  cried  one  night,  "  ah, 
well-a-day !  you  know  not  how  to  choose  a 
man.  An  I  could  choose  for  you,  Jule  !  By 
God's  lady,  there 's  Signior  Mercutio,  a 
brave  gentleman,  a  merry  gentleman,  and 
a  virtuous,  I  warrant  ye,  whose  little  finger- 
joint  is  worth  all  the  body  of  this  blackbird 
prince,  dropping  down  from  Lord  knows 
where  to  fly  off  with  the  sweetest  bit  of 
flesh  in  Verona.  Marry,  come  up !  " 

But  this  was  only  a  ripple  on  the  stream 
that  flowed  so  smoothly.  Now  and  then, 
indeed,  Hamlet  felt  called  upon  playfully 
to  chide  Juliet  for  her  extravagance  of  lan 
guage,  as  when,  for  instance,  she  prayed 
that  when  he  died  he  might  be  cut  out  in 
little  stars  to  deck  the  face  of  night.  Ham 
let  objected,  under  any  circumstances,  to 
being  cut  out  in  little  stars  for  any  illumi- 


132  A  MIDNIGHT  FANTASY. 

nating  purposes  whatsoever.  Once  she  sug 
gested  to  her  lover  that  he  should  come  to 
the  garden  after  the  family  retired,  and  she 
would  speak  with  him  a  moment  from  the 
balcony.  Now,  as  there  was  no  obstacle  to 
their  seeing  each  other  whenever  they 
pleased,  and  as  Hamlet  was  of  a  nice  sense 
of  honor,  and  since  his  engagement  a  most 
exquisite  practicer  of  propriety,  he  did  not 
encourage  Juliet  in  her  thoughtlessness. 

"  What ! "  he  cried,  lifting  his  finger  at 
her  reprovingly,  "  romantic  again !  " 

This  was  their  nearest  approach  to  a  lov 
ers'  quarrel.  The  next  day  Hamlet  brought 
her,  as  peace-offering,  a  slender  gold  flask 
curiously  wrought  in  niello,  which  he  had 
had  filled  with  a  costly  odor  at  an  apothe 
cary's  as  he  came  along. 

"  I  never  saw  so  lean  a  thing  as  that  same 
culler  of  simples,"  said  Hamlet,  laughing ; 
"  a  matter  of  ribs  and  shanks,  a  mere  skel 
eton  painted  black.  It  is  a  rare  essence, 
though.  He  told  me  its  barbaric  botanical 
name,  but  it  escapes  me." 

"  That  which  we  call  a  rose,"  said  Ju 
liet,  holding  the  perfumery  to  her  nostrils 
and  inclining  herself  prettily  towards  him, 
"  would  smell  as  sweet  by  any  other  name." 


A  MIDNIGHT  FANTASY.  133 

O  Youth  and  Love  !     O  fortunate  Time  ! 

There  was  a  banquet  almost  every  night 
at  the  Capulets',  and  the  Montagues,  up  the 
street,  kept  their  blinds  drawn  down,  and 
Lady  Montague,  who  had  four  marriageable, 
tawny  daughters  on  her  hands,  was  livid 
with  envy  at  her  neighbor's  success.  She 
would  rather  have  had  two  or  three  Monta 
gues  prodded  through  the  body  than  that  the 
prince  should  have  gone  to  the  rival  house. 

Happy  Prince ! 

If  Rosencrantz  and  Guildenstern  and 
Laertes,  and  the  rest  of  the  dismal  people 
at  Elsinore,  could  have  seen  him  now,  they 
would  not  have  known  him.  Where  were 
his  wan  looks  and  biting  speeches?  His 
eyes  were  no  longer  filled  with  mournful 
speculation.  He  went  in  glad  apparel,  and 
took  the  sunshine  as  his  natural  inheritance. 
If  he  ever  fell  into  moodiness  —  it  was 
partly  constitutional  with  him  —  the  shadow 
fled  away  at  the  first  approach  of  that 
"  loveliest  weight  on  lightest  foot."  The 
sweet  Veronese  had  nestled  in  his  empty 
heart,  and  filled  it  with  music.  The  ghosts 
and  visions  that  used  to  haunt  him  were  laid 
forever  by  Juliet's  magic. 

Happy  Juliet ! 


134  A  MIDNIGHT  FANTASY. 

Her  beauty  had  taken  a  new  gloss.  The 
bud  had  grown  into  a  flower,  redeeming  the 
promises  of  the  bud.  If  her  heart  beat  less 
wildly,  it  throbbed  more  strongly.  If  she 
had  given  Hamlet  of  her  superabundance  of 
spirits,  he  had  given  her  of  his  wisdom  and 
discretion.  She  had  always  been  a  great 
favorite  in  society  ;  but  Verona  thought  her 
ravishing  now.  The  mantua  -  makers  cut 
their  dresses  by  her  patterns,  and  when  she 
wore  turquoise,  garnets  went  out  of  style. 
Instead  of  the  groans  and  tears,  and  all 
those  distressing  events  which  might  pos 
sibly  have  happened  if  Juliet  had  persisted 
in  loving  Romeo  —  listen  to  her  laugh  and 
behold  her  merry  eyes  ! 

Every  morning  either  Peter  or  Gregory 
might  have  been  seen  going  up  Hamlet's 
staircase  with  a  note  from  Juliet  —  she  had 
ceased  to  send  the  Nurse  on  discovering  her 
lover's  antipathy  to  that  person  —  and  some 
minutes  later  either  Gregory  or  Peter  might 
have  been  observed  coming  down  the  stair 
case  with  a  missive  from  Hamlet.  Juliet 
had  detected  his  gift  for  verse,  and  insisted, 
rather  capriciously,  on  having  all  his  replies 
in  that  shape.  Hamlet  humored  her,  though 
he  was  often  hard  put  to  it ;  for  the  Muse 


A  MIDNIGHT  FANTASY.  135 

is  a  coy  immortal,  and  will  not  always  come 
when  she  is  wanted.  Sometimes  he  was 
forced  to  fall  back  upon  previous  efforts,  as 
when  he  translated  these  lines  into  very 
choice  Italian  :  — 

"Doubt  thou  the  stars  are  fire, 

Doubt  that  the  sun  doth  move; 
Doubt  Truth  to  be  a  liar, 
But  never  doubt  I  love." 

To  be  sure,  he  had  originally  composed 
this  quatrain  for  Ophelia ;  but  what  would 
you  have  ?  He  had  scarcely  meant  it  then  ; 
he  meant  it  now ;  besides,  a  felicitous  rhyme 
never  goes  out  of  fashion.  It  always  fits. 

While  transcribing  the  verse  his  thoughts 
naturally  reverted  to  Ophelia,  for  the  little 
poesy  was  full  of  a  faint  scent  of  the  past, 
like  a  pressed  flower.  His  conscience  did 
not  prick  him  at  all.  How  fortunate  for 
him  and  for  her  that  matters  had  gone  no 
further  between  them  ?  Predisposed  to  mel 
ancholy,  and  inheriting  a  not  very  strong 
mind  from  her  father,  Ophelia  was  a  lady 
who  needed  cheering  up,  if  ever  poor  lady 
did.  He,  Hamlet,  was  the  last  man  on  the 
globe  with  whom  she  should  have  had  any 
tender  affiliation.  If  they  had  wed,  they 
would  have  caught  each  other's  despond- 


136  A  MIDNIGHT  FANTASY. 

ency,  and  died,  like  a  pair  of  sick  ravens, 
within  a  fortnight.  What  had  become  of 
her?  Had  she  gone  into  a  nunnery?  He 
would  make  her  abbess,  if  he  ever  returned 
to  Elsinore. 

After  a  month  or  two  of  courtship,  there 
being  no  earthly  reason  to  prolong  it,  Ham 
let  and  Juliet  were  privately  married  in  the 
Franciscan  Chapel,  Friar  Laurence  officiat 
ing  ;  but  there  was  a  grand  banquet  that 
night  at  the  Capulets',  to  which  all  Verona 
went.  At  Hamlet's  intercession,  the  Mon 
tagues  were  courteously  asked  to  this  fes 
tival.  To  the  amazement  of  every  one  the 
Montagues  accepted  the  invitation  and  came, 
and  were  treated  royally,  and  the  long,  lam 
entable  feud  —  it  would  have  sorely  puz 
zled  either  house  to  explain  what  it  was  all 
about  —  was  at  an  end.  The  adherents  of 
the  Capulets  and  the  Montagues  were  for 
bidden  on  the  spot  to  bite  any  more  thumbs 
at  each  other. 

"  It  will  detract  from  the  general  gayety 
of  the  town,"  Mercutio  remarked.  "  Sig- 
nior  Tybalt,  my  friend,  I  shall  never  have 
the  pleasure  of  running  you  through  the  dia 
phragm  ;  a  cup  of  wine  with  you  !  " 

The  guests  were   still   at   supper  in  the 


A  MIDNIGHT  FANTASY.  137 

great  pavilion  erected  in  the  garden,  which 
was  as  light  as  day  with  the  glare  of  in 
numerable  flambeaux  set  among  the  shrub 
bery.  Hamlet  and  Juliet,  with  several 
others,  had  withdrawn  from  the  tables,  and 
were  standing  in  the  doorway  of  the  pa 
vilion,  when  Hamlet's  glance  fell  upon  the 
familiar  form  of  a  young  man  who  stood 
with  one  foot  on  the  lower  step,  holding  his 
plumed  bonnet  in  his  hand.  His  hose  and 
doublet  were  travel-worn,  but  his  honest 
face  was  as  fresh  as  daybreak. 

"What!     Horatio?" 

"  The  same,  my  lord,  and  your  poor  ser 
vant  ever." 

"  Sir,  my  good  friend :  I  '11  change  that 
name  with  you.  What  brings  you  to  Ve 
rona  ?  " 

"  I  fetch  you  news,  my  lord." 

"  Good  news  ?     Then  the  king  is  dead." 
""The    king    lives,    but    Ophelia    is    no 
more." 

"  Ophelia  dead  1 " 

"  Not  so,  my  lord  ;  she 's  married." 

"I  pray  thee,  do  not  mock  me,  fellow- 
student." 

"  As  I  do  live,  my  honored  lord,  't  is  true." 

"  Married,  say  you  ?  " 


138  A  MIDNIGHT  FANTASY. 

"  Married  to  him  that  sent  me  hither  — 
a  gentleman  of  winning  ways  and  a  most 
choice  conceit,  the  scion  of  a  noble  house 
here  in  Verona  —  one  Romeo." 

The  oddest  little  expression  flitted  over 
Juliet's  face.  There  was  never  woman  yet, 
even  on  her  bridal  tlay,  could  forgive  a  jilted 
lover  marrying. 

"  Ophelia  wed !  "  murmured  the  bride 
groom. 

"  Do  you  know  the  lady,  dear  ?  " 

"Excellent  well,"  replied  Hamlet,  turn 
ing  to  Juliet ;  "  a  most  estimable  young 
person,  the  daughter  of  my  father's  cham 
berlain.  She  is  rather  given  to  singing  bal 
lads  of  an  elegiac  nature,"  added  the  prince, 
reflectingly,  "but  our  madcap  Romeo  will 
cure  her  of  that.  Methinks  I  see  them 
now  "  — 

"Oh,  where,  my  lord?" 

"  In  my  mind's  eye,  Horatio,  surrounded 
by  their  little  ones  —  noble  youths  and 
graceful  maidens,  in  whom  the  impetuosity 
of  the  fiery  Romeo  is  tempered  by  the  pen- 
siveness  of  the  fair  Ophelia.  I  shall  take 
it  most  unkindly  of  them,  love,"  toying  with 
Juliet's  fingers,  "  if  they  do  not  name  their 
first  boy  Hamlet." 


A  MIDNIGHT  FANTASY.  139 

It  was  just  as  my  lord  Hamlet  finished 
speaking  that  the  last  horse-car  for  Boston 
—  providentially  belated  between  Water- 
town  and  Mount  Auburn  —  swept  round 
the  curve  of  the  track  on  which  I  was  walk 
ing.  The  amber  glow  of  the  car -lantern 
lighted  up  my  figure  in  the  gloom,  the 
driver  gave  a  quick  turn  on  the  brake,  and 
the  conductor,  making  a  sudden  dexterous 
clutch  at  the  strap  over  his  head,  sounded 
the  death-knell  of  my  fantasy  as  I  stepped 
upon  the  rear  platform. 


MADEMOISELLE     OLYMPE 
ZABRISKI. 


WE  are  accustomed  to  speak  with  a  cer 
tain  light  irony  of  the  tendency  which 
women  have  to  gossip,  as  if  the  sin  itself, 
if  it  is  a  sin,  were  of  the  gentler  sex,  and 
could  by  no  chance  be  a  masculine  pecca 
dillo.  So  far  as  my  observation  goes,  men 
are  as  much  given  to  small  talk  as  women, 
and  it  is  undeniable  that  we  have  produced 
the  highest  type  of  gossiper  extant.  Where 
will  you  find,  in  or  out  of  literature,  such 
another  droll,  delightful,  chatty  busybody 
as  Samuel  Pepys,  Esq.,  Secretary  to  the  Ad 
miralty  in  the  reigns  of  those  fortunate 
gentlemen  Charles  II.  and  James  II.  of 
England?  He  is  the  king  of  tattlers  as 
Shakespeare  is  the  king  of  poets. 

If  it  came  to  a  matter  of  pure  gossip,  I 
would  back  Our  Club  against  the  Sorosis  or 
uny  women's  club  in  existence.  Whenever 


MADEMOISELLE  OLYMPE  ZABRISKI.    141 

you  see  in  our  drawing-room  four  or  five 
young  fellows  lounging  in  easy-chairs,  cigar 
in  hand,  and  now  and  then  bringing  their 
heads  together  over  the  small  round  Japan 
ese  table  which  is  always  the  pivot  of  these 
social  circles,  you  may  be  sure  that  they  are 
discussing  Tom's  engagement,  or  Dick's  ex 
travagance,  or  Harry's  hopeless  passion  for 
the  younger  Miss  Fleurdelys.  It  is  here 
old  Tippleton  gets  execrated  for  that  ever 
lasting  bon  mot  of  his  which  was  quite  a 
success  at  dinner  -  parties  forty  years  ago ; 
it  is  here  the  belle  of  the  season  passes 
under  the  scalpels  of  merciless  young  sur 
geons  ;  it  is  here  B's  financial  condition 
is  handled  in  a  way  that  would  make  B's 
hair  stand  on  end ;  it  is  here,  in  short,  that 
everything  is  canvassed  —  everything  that 
happens  in  our  set,  I  mean,  much  that  never 
happens,  and  a  great  deal  that  could  not 
possibly  happen.  It  was  at  Our  Club  that 
I  learned  the  particulars  of  the  Van  Twiller 
affair. 

It  was  great  entertainment  to  Our  Club, 
the  Van  Twiller  affair,  though  it  was  rather 
a  joyless  thing,  I  fancy,  for  Van  Twiller. 
To  understand  the  case  fully,  it  should  be 
understood  that  Ralph  Van  Twiller  is  one 


142     MADEMOISELLE  OLYMPE  ZABRISKI. 

of  the  proudest  and  most  sensitive  men 
living.  He  is  a  lineal  descendant  of  Wouter 
Van  Twiller,  the  famous  old  Dutch  governor 
of  New  York  —  Nieuw  Amsterdam,  as  it 
was  then ;  his  ancestors  have  always  been 
burgqmasters  or  admirals  or  generals,  and 
his  mother  is  the  Mrs.  Vanrensselaer  Van- 
zandt  Van  Twiller  whose  magnificent  place 
will  be  pointed  out  to  you  on  the  right  bank 
of  the  Hudson,  as  you  pass  up  the  historic 
river  towards  Idlewild.  Ralph  is  about 
twenty-five  years  old.  Birth  made  him  a 
gentleman,  and  the  rise  of  real  estate  — 
some  of  it  in  the  family  since  the  old  gov 
ernor's  time  —  made  him  a  millionaire.  It 
was  a  kindly  fairy  that  stepped  in  and  made 
him  a  good  fellow  also.  Fortune,  I  take  it, 
was  in  her  most  jocund  mood  when  she 
heaped  her  gifts  in  this  fashion  on  Van 
Twiller,  who  was,  and  will  be  again,  when 
this  cloud  blows  over,  the  flower  of  Our 
Club. 

About  a  year  ago  there  came  a  whisper  — 
if  the  word  "  whisper "  is  not  too  harsh  a 
term  to  apply  to  what  seemed  a  mere  breath 
floating  gently  through  the  atmosphere  of 
the  billiard-room  —  imparting  the  intelli 
gence  that  Van  Twiller  was  in  some  kind 


MADEMOISELLE   OLYMPE  ZABRISKI.     143 

of  trouble.  Just  as  everybody  suddenly 
takes  to  wearing  square-toed  boots,  or  to 
drawing  his  neckscarf  through  a  ring,  so  it 
became  all  at  once  the  fashion,  without  any 
preconcerted  agreement,  for  everybody  to 
speak  of  Van  Twiller  as  a  man  in  some 
way  under  a  cloud.  But  what  the  cloud 
was,  and  how  he  got  under  it,  and  why  he 
did  not  get  away  from  it,  were  points  that 
lifted  themselves  into  the  realm  of  pure 
conjecture.  There  was  no  man  in  the  club 
with  strong  enough  wing  to  his  imagination 
to  soar  to  the  supposition  that  Van  Twiller 
was  embarrassed  in  money  matters.  Was 
he  in  love?  That  appeared  nearly  as  im 
probable  ;  for  if  he  had  been  in  love  all  the 
world  —  that  is,  perhaps  a  hundred  first 
families  —  would  have  known  all  about  it 
instantly. 

"  He  has  the  symptoms,"  said  Delaney, 
laughing.  "  I  remember  once  when  Jack 
Flemming  "  — 

"  Ned  !  "  cried  Flemming,  "  I  protest 
against  any  allusion  to  that  business." 

This  was  one  night  when  Van  Twiller 
had  wandered  into  the  club,  turned  over  the 
magazines  absently  in  the  reading-room,  and 
wandered  out  again  without  speaking  ten 


144     MADEMOISELLE  OLTMPE  ZABRISKI. 

words.  The  most  careless  eye  would  have 
remarked  the  great  change  that  had  come 
over  Van  Twiller.  Now  and  then  he  would 
play  a  game  of  billiards  with  De  Peyster 
or  Haseltine,  or  stop  to  chat  a  moment  in 
the  vestibule  with  old  Duane ;  but  he  was 
an  altered  man.  When  at  the  club,  he  was 
usually  to  be  found  in  the  small  smoking- 
room  up-stairs,  seated  on  a  fauteuil  fast 
asleep,  with  the  last  number  of  The  Nation 
in  his  hand.  Once,  if  you  went  to  two  or 
three  places  of  an  evening,  you  were  certain 
to  meet  Van  Twiller  at  them  all.  You 
seldom  met  him  in  society  now. 

By  and  by  came  whisper  number  two  — 
a  whisper  more  emphatic  than  number  one, 
but  still  untraceable  to  any  tangible  mouth 
piece.  This  time  the  whisper  said  that  Van 
Twiller  was  in  love.  But  with  whom  ? 
The  list  of  possible  Mrs.  Van  Twillers  was 
carefully  examined  by  experienced  hands, 
and  a  check  placed  against  a  fine  old 
Knickerbocker  name  here  and  there,  but 
nothing  satisfactory  arrived  at.  Then  that 
same  still  small  voice  of  rumor,  but  now 
with  an  easily  detected  staccato  sharpness  to 
it,  said  that  Van  Twiller  was  in  love  —  with 
an  actress !  Van  Twiller,  whom  it  had 


MADEMOISELLE  OLYMPE  ZABRISKI.      145 

taken  all  these  years  and  all  this  waste 
of  raw  material  in  the  way  of  ancestors  to 
bring  to  perfection  —  Ralph  Van  Twiller, 

the  net  result  and  flower  of  his  race,   the 

»*  ' 

descendant  of  Wouter,  the  son  of  Mrs.  Van- 
rensselaer  Vanzandt  Van  Twiller  —  in  love 
with  an  actress !  That  was  too  ridiculous  to 
be  believed  —  and  so  everybody  believed  it. 
Six  or  seven  members  of  the  club  abrupt 
ly  discovered  in  themselves  an  unsuspected 
latent  passion  for  the  histrionic  art.  In 
squads  of  two  or  three  they  stormed  succes 
sively  all  the  theatres  in  town  —  Booth's, 
Wallack's,  Daly's  Fifth  Avenue  (not  burnt 
down  then),  and  the  Grand  Opera  House. 
Even  the  shabby  homes  of  the  drama  over 
in  the  Bowery,  where  the  Germanic  Thespis 
has  not  taken  out  his  naturalization  papers, 
underwent  rigid  exploration.  But  no  clue 
was  found  to  Van  Twiller 's  mysterious  at 
tachment.  The  op£ra  bouffe,  which  prom 
ised  the  widest  field  for  investigation,  pro 
duced  absolutely  nothing,  not  even  a  crop 
of  suspicions.  One  night,  after  several 
weeks  of  this,  Delaney  and  I  fancied  that 
we  caught  sight  of  Van  Twiller  in  the  pri 
vate  box  of  an  up-town  theatre,  where  some 
thrilling  trapeze  performance  was  going  on, 


146     MADEMOISELLE  OLYMPE  ZABRISKL 

which  we  did  not  care  to  sit  through ;  but 
we  concluded  afterwards  that  it  was  only 
somebody  who  looked  like  him.  Delaney,  by 
the  way,  was  unusually  active  in  this  search. 
I  dare  say  he  never  quite  forgave  Van  Twil- 
ler  for  calling  him  Muslin  Delaney.  Ned 
is  fond  of  ladies'  society,  and  that 's  a  fact. 

The  Cimmerian  darkness  which  sur 
rounded  Van  Twiller's  inamorata  left  us 
free  to  indulge  in  the  wildest  conjectures. 
Whether  she  was  black-tressed  Melpomene, 
with  bowl  and  dagger,  or  Thalia,  with  the 
fair  hair  and  the  laughing  face,  was  only  to 
be  guessed  at.  It  was  popularly  conceded, 
however,  that  Van  Twiller  was  on  the  point 
of  forming  a  dreadful  mesalliance. 

Up  to  this  period  he  had  visited  the  club 
regularly.  Suddenly  he  ceased  to  appear. 
He  was  not  to  be  seen  on  Fifth  Avenue, 
or  in  the  Central  Park,  or  at  the  houses  he 
generally  frequented.  His  chambers  —  and 
mighty  comfortable  chambers  they  were  — 
on  Thirty-fourth  Street  were  deserted.  He 
had  dropped  out  of  the  world,  shot  like  a 
bright  particular  star  from  his  orbit  in  the 
heaven  of  the  best  society. 

The  following  conversation  took  place  one 
night  in  the  smoking-room  :  — 


MADEMOISELLE  OLTMPE  ZABRISKI.     147 

"  Where  's  Van  TwiUer  ?  " 

"  Who  's  seen  Van  Twiller  ?  " 

"  What  has  become  of  Van  Twiller?  " 

Delaney  picked  up  the  Evening  Post,  and 
read  —  with  a  solemnity  that  betrayed 
young  Firkins  into  exclaiming,  "  By  Jove, 
now ! "  — 

"Married,  on  the  10th  instant,  by  the 
Rev.  Friar  Laurence,  at  the  residence  of  the 
bride's  uncle,  Montague  Capulet,  Esq.,  Miss 
Adrienne  Le  Couvreur  to  Mr.  Ralph  Van 
Twiller,  both  of  this  city.  No  cards." 

"Free  List  suspended,"  murmured  De 
Peyster. 

"  It  strikes  me,"  said  Frank  Livingstone, 
who  had  been  ruffling  the  leaves  of  a  maga 
zine  at  the  other  end  of  the  table,  "  that  you 
fellows  are  in  a  great  fever  about  Van  Twil 
ler." 

"  So  we  are." 

"  Well,  he  has  simply  gone  out  of  town." 

"Where?" 

"Up  to  the  old  homestead  on  the  Hud 
son." 

"  It 's  an  odd  time  of  year  for  a  fellow  to 
go  into  the  country." 

"  He  has  gone  to  visit  his  mother,"  said 
Livingstone. 


148    MADEMOISELLE  OLYMPE  ZABRISKI. 

"  In  February  ?  " 

"  I  did  n't  know,  Delaney,  that  there  was 
any  statute  in  force  prohibiting  a  man  from 
visiting  his  mother  in  February  if  he  wants 
to." 

Delaney  made  some  light  remark  about 
the  pleasure  of  communing  with  Nature 
with  a  cold  in  her  head,  and  the  topic  was 
dropped. 

Livingstone  was  hand  in  glove  with  Van 
Twiller,  and  if  any  man  shared  his  confi 
dence  it  was  Livingstone.  He  was  aware 
of  the  gossip  and  speculation  that  had  been 
rife  in  the  club,  but  he  either  was  not  at  lib 
erty  or  did  not  think  it  worth  while  to  re 
lieve  our  curiosity.  In  the  course  of  a  week 
or  two  it  was  reported  that  Van  Twiller  was 
going  to  Europe ;  and  go  he  did.  A  dozen 
of  us  went  down  to  the  Scythia  to  see  him 
off.  It  was  refreshing  to  have  something 
as  positive  as  the  fact  that  Van  Twiller  had 
sailed. 


MADEMOISELLE  OLYMPE  ZABRISKI.     149 


n. 

SHORTLY  after  Van  Twiller's  departure 
the  whole  thing  came  out.  Whether  Liv 
ingstone  found  the  secret  too  heavy  a  bur 
den,  or  whether  it  transpired  through  some 
indiscretion  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Vanrens- 
selaer  Vanzandt  Van  Twiller,  I  cannot  say ; 
but  one  evening  the  entire  story  was  in  the 
possession  of  the  club. 

Van  Twiller  had  actually  been  very  deep 
ly  interested  —  not  in  an  actress,  for  the 
legitimate  drama  was  not  her  humble  walk 
in  lif e,  but  —  in  Mademoiselle  Olympe  Za- 
briski,  whose  really  perilous  feats  on  the 
trapeze  had  astonished  New  York  the  year 
before,  though  they  had  failed  to  attract 
Delaney  and  me  the  night  we  wandered  into 
the  up-town  theatre  on  the  trail  of  Van 
Twiller's  mystery. 

That  a  man  like  Van  Twiller  should  be 
fascinated  even  for  an  instant  by  a  common 
circus-girl  seems  incredible  ;  but  it  is  always 
the  incredible  thing  that  happens.  Besides, 
Mademoiselle  Olympe  was  not  a  common 


150     MADEMOISELLE  OLYMPE  ZABRISKI. 

circus-girl ;  she  was  a  most  daring  and  start 
ling  gymnaste,  with  a  beauty  and  a  grace 
of  movement  that  gave  to  her  audacious 
performance  almost  an  air  of  prudery. 
Watching  her  wondrous  dexterity  and 
pliant  strength,  both  exercised  without  ap 
parent  effort,  it  seemed  the  most  natural 
proceeding  in  the  world  that  she  should  do 
those  unpardonable  things.  She  had  a  way 
of  melting  from  one  graceful  posture  into 
another,  like  the  dissolving  figures  thrown 
from  a  stereopticon.  She  was  a  lithe,  ra 
diant  shape  out  of  the  Grecian  mythology, 
now  poised  up  there  above  the  gaslights, 
and  now  gleaming  through  the  air  like  a 
slender  gilt  arrow. 

I  am  describing  Mademoiselle  Olympe  as 
she  appeared  to  Van  Twiller  on  the  first 
occasion  when  he  strolled  into  the  theatre 
where  she  was  performing.  To  me  she  was 
a  girl  of  eighteen  or  twenty  years  of  age 
(maybe  she  was  much  older,  for  pearl-pow 
der  and  distance  keep  these  people  perpet 
ually  young),  slightly  but  exquisitely  built, 
with  sinews  of  silver  wire  ;  rather  pretty, 
perhaps,  after  a  manner,  but  showing  plainly 
the  effects  of  the  exhaustive  drafts  she  was 
making  on  her  physical  vitality.  Now,  Van 


MADEMOISELLE   OLYMPE  ZABRISKI.      151 

Twiller  was  an  enthusiast  on  the  subject 
of  calisthenics.  "  If  I  had  a  daughter," 
Van  Twiller  used  to  say,  "  I  would  n't  send 
her  to  a  boarding-school,  or  a  nunnery  ;  I  'd 
send  her  to  a  gymnasium  for  the  first  five 
years.  Our  American  women  have  no  phy 
sique.  They  are  lilies,  pallid,  pretty  —  and 
perishable.  You  marry  an  American  wo 
man,  and  what  do  you  marry?  A  head 
ache.  Look  at  English  girls.  They  are  at 
least  roses,  and  last  the  season  through." 

Walking  home  from  the  theatre  that  first 
night,  it  flitted  through  Van  Twiller's  mind 
that  if  he  could  give  this  girl's  set  of  nerves 
and  muscles  to  any  one  of  the  two  hundred 
high-bred  women  he  knew,  he  would  marry 
her  on  the  spot  and  worship  her  forever. 

The  following  evening  he  went  to  see 
Mademoiselle  Olympe  again.  "  Olympe 
Zabriski,"  he  soliloquized,  as  he  sauntered 
through  the  lobby  —  "  what  a  queer  name ! 
Olympe  is  French,  and  Zabriski  is  Polish. 
It  is  her  nom  de  guerre,  of  course  ;  her  real 
name  is  probably  Sarah  Jones.  What  kind 
of  creature  can  she  be  in  private  life,  I 
wonder?  I  wonder  if  she  wears  that  cos 
tume  all  the  time,  and  if  she  springs  to  her 
meals  from  a  horizontal  bar.  Of  course  she 


152      MADEMOISELLE  OLYMPE  ZABRISKI. 

rocks  the  baby  to  sleep  on  the  trapeze." 
And  Van  Twiller  went  on  making  comical 
domestic  tableaux  of  Mademoiselle  Zabriski, 
like  the  clever,  satirical  dog  he  was,  until 
the  curtain  rose. 

This  was  on  a  Friday.  There  was  a  mat- 
ine'e  the  next  day,  and  he  attended  that, 
though  he  had  secured  a  seat  for  the  usual 
evening  entertainment.  Then  it  became  a 
habit  of  Van  T wilier 's  to  drop  into  the 
theatre  for  half  an  hour  or  so  every  night, 
to  assist  at  the  interlude,  in  which  she  ap 
peared.  He  cared  only  for  her  part  of 
the  programme,  and  timed  his  visits  accord 
ingly.  It  was  a  surprise  to  himself  when 
he  reflected,  one  morning,  that  he  had  not 
missed  a  single  performance  of  Mademoiselle 
Olympe  for  nearly  two  weeks. 

"  This  will  never  do,"  said  Van  Twiller. 
"  Olympe  "  —  he  called  her  Olympe,  as  if 
she  were  an  old  acquaintance,  and  so  she 
might  have  been  considered  by  that  time  — 
"  is  a  wonderful  creature  ;  but  this  will 
never  do.  Van,  my  boy,  you  must  reform 
this  altogether." 

But  half  past  nine  that  night  saw  him  in 
his  accustomed  orchestra  chair,  and  so  on 
for  another  week.  A  habit  leads  a  man  so 


MADEMOISELLE  OLYMPE  ZABRISKI.      153 

gently  in  the  beginning  that  he  does  not 
perceive  he  is  led — with  what  silken  threads 
and  down  what  pleasant  avenues  it  leads 
him !  By  and  by  the  soft  silk  threads  be 
come  iron  chains,  and  the  pleasant  avenues 
Avernus ! 

Quite  a  new  element  had  lately  entered 
into  Van  Twiller's  enjoyment  of  Mademoi 
selle  Olympe's  ingenious  feats  —  a  vaguely 
born  apprehension  that  she  might  slip  from 
that  swinging  bar  ;  that  one  of  the  thin  cords 
supporting  it  might  snap,  and  let  her  go 
headlong  from  the  dizzy  height.  Now  and 
then,  for  a  terrible  instant,  he  would  imagine 
her  lying  a  glittering,  palpitating  heap  at  the 
foot-lights,  with  no  color  in  her  lips !  Some 
times  it  seemed  as  if  the  girl  were  tempting 
this  kind  of  fate.  It  was  a  hard,  bitter  life, 
and  nothing  but  poverty  and  sordid  misery 
at  home  could  have  driven  her  to  it.  What 
if  she  should  end  it  all  some  night,  by  just 
unclasping  that  little  hand  ?  It  looked  so 
small  and  white  from  where  Van  Twiller 
sat! 

This  frightful  idea  fascinated  while  it 
chilled  him,  and  helped  to  make  it  nearly 
impossible  for  him  to  keep  away  from  the 
theatre.  In  the  beginning  his  attendance 


154      MADEMOISELLE  OLYMPE  ZABRISKi. 

had  not  interfered  with  his  social  duties  or 
pleasures  ;  but  now  he  came  to  find  it  dis 
tasteful  after  dinner  to  do  anything  but 
read,  or  walk  the  streets  aimlessly,  until  it 
was  time  to  go  to  the  play.  When  that  was 
over,  he  was  in  no  mood  to  go  anywhere  but 
to  his  rooms.  So  he  dropped  away  by  in 
sensible  degrees  from  his  habitual  haunts, 
was  missed,  and  began  to  be  talked  about  at 
the  club.  Catching  some  intimation  of  this, 
he  ventured  no  more  in  the  orchestra  stalls, 
but  shrouded  himself  behind  the  draperies 
of  the  private  box  in  which  Delaney  and  I 
thought  we  saw  him  on  one  occasion. 

Now,  I  find  it  very  perplexing  to  explain 
what  Van  Twiller  was  wholly  unable  to  ex 
plain  to  himself.  He  was  not  in  love  with 
Mademoiselle  Olympe.  He  had  no  wish  to 
speak  to  her,  or  to  hear  her  speak.  Nothing 
could  have  been  easier,  and  nothing  further 
from  his  desire,  than  to  know  her  personally. 
A  Van  Twiller  personally  acquainted  with  a 
strolling  female  acrobat !  Good  heavens  ! 
That  was  something  possible  only  with  the 
discovery  of  perpetual  motion.  Taken  from 
her  theatrical  setting,  from  her  lofty  perch, 
so  to  say,  on  the  trapeze-bar,  Olympe  Za- 
briski  would  have  shocked  every  aristocratic 


MADEMOISELLE  OLYMPE  ZABRISKI.      155 

fibre  in  Van  Twiller's  body.  He  was  sim 
ply  fascinated  by  her  marvellous  grace  and 
elan,  and  the  magnetic  recklessness  of  the 
girl.  It  was  very  young  in  him  and  very 
weak,  and  no  member  of  the  Sorosis,  or  all 
the  Sorosisters  together,  could  have  been 
more  severe  on  Van  Twiller  than  he  was  on 
himself.  To  be  weak,  and  to  know  it,  is 
something  of  a  punishment  for  a  proud  man. 
Van  Twiller  took  his  punishment,  and  went 
to  the  theatre,  regularly. 

"When  her  engagement  comes  to  an 
end,"  he  meditated,  "  that  will  finish  the 
business." 

Mademoiselle  Olympe's  engagement  final 
ly  did  come  to  an  end,  and  she  departed. 
But  her  engagement  had  been  highly  bene 
ficial  to  the  treasury-chest  of  the  up-town 
theatre,  and  before  Van  Twiller  could  get 
over  missing  her  she  had  returned  from  a 
short  Western  tour,  and  her  immediate  re 
appearance  was  underlined  on  the  play-bills. 

On  a  dead-wall  opposite  the  windows  of 
Van  Twiller's  sleeping-room  there  appeared, 
as  if  by  necromancy,  an  aggressive  poster 
with  MADEMOISELLE  OLYMPE  ZABRISKI  on 
it  in  letters  at  least  a  foot  high.  This  thing 
stared  him  in  the  face  when  he  woke  up,  one 


156      MADEMOISELLE   OLYMPE  Z A  BRISK I. 

morning.  It  gave  him  a  sensation  as  if  she 
had  called  on  him  overnight,  and  left  her 
card. 

From  time  to  time  through  the  day  he  re 
garded  that  poster  with  a  sardonic  eye.  He 
had  pitilessly  resolved  not  to  repeat  the  folly 
of  the  previous  month.  To  say  that  this 
moral  victory  cost  him  nothing  would  be  to 
deprive  it  of  merit.  It  cost  him  many  in 
ternal  struggles.  It  is  a  fine  thing  to  see 
a  man  seizing  his  temptation  by  the  throat, 
and  wrestling  with  it,  and  trampling  it  un 
der  foot  like  St.  Anthony.  This  was  the 
spectacle  Van  Twiller  was  exhibiting  to  the 
angels. 

The  evening  Mademoiselle  Olympe  was  to 
make  her  reappearance,  Van  Twiller,  having 
dined  at  the  club,  and  feeling  more  like  him 
self  than  he  had  felt  for  weeks,  returned  to 
his  chamber,  and,  putting  on  dressing-gown 
and  slippers,  piled  up  the  greater  portion  of 
his  library  about  him,  and  fell  to  reading 
assiduously.  There  is  nothing  like  a  quiet 
evening  at  home  with  some  slight  intellect 
ual  occupation,  after  one's  feathers  have 
been  stroked  the  wrong  way. 

When  the  lively  French  clock  on  the 
mantel  -  piece  —  a  base  of  malachite  sur- 


MADEMOISELLE  OLYMPE  ZABRISKI.      157 

mounted  by  a  flying  bronze  Mercury  with 
its  arms  spread  gracefully  on  the  air,  and 
not  remotely  suggestive  of  Mademoiselle 
Olympe  in  the  act  of  executing  her  grand 
flight  from  the  trapeze  —  when  the  clock,  I 
repeat,  struck  nine,  Van  Twiller  paid  no  at 
tention  to  it.  That  was  certainly  a  triumph. 
I  am  anxious  to  render  Van  Twiller  all  the 
justice  I  can,  at  this  point  of  the  narrative, 
inasmuch  as  when  the  half  hour  sounded 
musically,  like  a  crystal  ball  dropping  into  a 
silver  bowl,  he  rose  from  the  chair  automat 
ically,  thrust  his  feet  into  his  walking-shoes, 
threw  his  overcoat  across  his  arm,  and 
strode  out  of  the  room. 

To  be  weak  and  to  scorn  your  weakness, 
and  not  to  be  able  to  conquer  it,  is,  as  has 
been  said,  a  hard  thing;  and  I  suspect  it 
was  not  with  unalloyed  satisfaction  that  Van 
Twiller  found  himself  taking  his  seat  in  the 
back  part  of  the  private  box  night  after 
night  during  the  second  engagement  of 
Mademoiselle  Olympe.  It  was  so  easy  not 
to  stay  away ! 

In  this  second  edition  of  Van  Twiller's 
fatuity,  his  case  was  even  worse  than  before. 
He  not  only  thought  of  Olympo  quite  a 
number  of  times  between  breakfast  and  din- 


158     MADEMOISELLE  OLYMPE  ZABRISKI. 

ner,  he  not  only  attended  the  interlude  regu 
larly,  but  he  began,  in  spite  of  himself,  to 
occupy  his  leisure  hours  at  night  by  dream 
ing  of  her.  This  was  too  much  of  a  good 
thing,  and  Van  Twiller  regarded  it  so.  Be 
sides,  the  dream  was  always  the  same  —  a 
harrowing  dream,  a  dream  singularly  adapt 
ed  to  shattering  the  nerves  of  a  man  like 
Van  Twiller.  He  would  imagine  himself 
seated  at  the  theatre  (with  all  the  members 
of  Our  Club  in  the  parquette),  watching 
Mademoiselle  Olympe  as  usual,  when  sud 
denly  that  young  lady  would  launch  herself 
desperately  from  the  trapeze,  and  come  fly 
ing  through  the  air  like  a  firebrand  hurled 
at  his  private  box.  Then  the  unfortunate 
man  would  wake  up  with  cold  drops  stand 
ing  on  his  forehead. 

There  is  one  redeeming  feature  in  this  in 
fatuation  of  Van  Twiller's  which  the  sober 
moralist  will  love  to  look  upon  —  the  serene 
unconsciousness  of  the  person  who  caused 
it.  She  went  through  her  rdle  with  admira 
ble  aplomb,  drew  her  salary,  it  may  be  as 
sumed,  punctually,  and  appears  from  first  to 
last  to  have  been  ignorant  that  there  was  a 
miserable  slave  wearing  her  chains  nightly 
in  the  left-hand  proscenium-box. 


MADEMOISELLE  OLTMPE  ZABRISKI.     159 

That  Van  Twiller,  haunting  the  theatre 
with  the  persistency  of  an  ex-actor,  con 
ducted  himself  so  discreetly  as  not  to  draw 
the  fire  of  Mademoiselle  Olympe's  blue  eyes 
shows  that  Van  Twiller,  however  deeply 
under  a  spell,  was  not  in  love.  I  say  this, 
though  I  think  if  Van  Twiller  had  not  been 
Van  Twiller,  if  he  had  been  a  man  of  no 
family  and  no  position  and  no  money,  if 
New  York  had  been  Paris  and  Thirty-fourth 
Street  a  street  in  the  Latin  Quarter  —  but 
it  is  useless  to  speculate  on  what  might  have 
happened.  What  did  happen  is  sufficient. 

It  happened,  then,  in  the  second  week  of 
Queen  Olympe's  second  unconscious  reign, 
that  an  appalling  Whisper  floated  up  the 
Hudson,  effected  a  landing  at  a  point  be 
tween  Spuyten  Duyvel  Creek  and  Cold 
Spring,  and  sought  out  a  stately  mansion  of 
Dutch  architecture  standing  on  the  bank  of 
the  river.  The  Whisper  straightway  in 
formed  the  lady  dwelling  in  this  mansion 
that  all  was  not  well  with  the  last  of  the 
Van  Twillers ;  that  he  was  gradually  estrang 
ing  himself  from  his  peers,  and  wasting  his 
nights  in  a  play-house  watching  a  misguided 
young  woman  turning  unmaidenly  somer 
saults  on  a  piece  of  wood  attached  to  two 
ropes. 


160     MADEMOISELLE  OLYMPE  ZABRISKI. 

Mrs.  Vanrensselaer  Vanzandt  Van  Twiller 
came  down  to  town  by  the  next  train  to  look 
into  this  little  matter. 

She  found  the  flower  of  the  family  taking 
an  early  breakfast,  at  11  A.  M.,  in  his  cosey 
apartments  on  Thirty-fourth  Street.  With 
the  least  possible  circumlocution  she  con 
fronted  him  with  what  rumor  had  reported 
of  his  pursuits,  and  was  pleased,  but  not  too 
much  pleased,  when  he  gave  her  an  exact 
account  of  his  relations  with  Mademoiselle 
Zabriski,  neither  concealing  nor  qualifying 
anything.  As  a  confession,  it  was  unique, 
and  might  have  been  a  great  deal  less  enter 
taining.  Two  or  three  times  in  the  course 
of  the  narrative,  the  matron  had  some  diffi 
culty  in  preserving  the  gravity  of  her  counte 
nance.  After  meditating  a  few  minutes,  she 
tapped  Van  Twiller  softly  on  the  arm  with 
the  tip  of  her  parasol,  and  invited  him  to 
return  with  her  the  next  day  up  the  Hudson 
and  make  a  brief  visit  at  the  home  of  his 
ancestors.  He  accepted  the  invitation  with 
outward  alacrity  and  inward  disgust. 

When  this  was  settled,  and  the  worthy 
lady  had  withdrawn,  Van  Twiller  went  di 
rectly  to  the  establishment  of  Messrs  Ball, 
Black,  and  Company,  and  selected,  with  un- 


MADEMOISELLE  OLTMPE  ZABRISKI.     161 

erring  taste,  the  finest  diamond  bracelet 
procurable.  For  his  mother?  Dear  me, 
no !  She  had  the  family  jewels. 

I  would  not  like  to  state  the  enormous 
sum  Van  Twiller  paid  for  this  bracelet.  It 
was  such  a  clasp  of  diamonds  as  would  have 
hastened  the  pulsation  of  a  patrician  wrist. 
It  was  such  a  bracelet  as  Prince  Camaralza- 
man  might  have  sent  to  the  Princess  Ba- 
doura,  and  the  Princess  Badoura  —  might 
have  been  very  glad  to  get. 

In  the  fragrant  Levant  morocco  case, 
where  these  happy  jewels  lived  when  they 
were  at  home,  Van  Twiller  thoughtfully 
placed  his  card,  on  the  back  of  which  he  had 
written  a  line  begging  Mademoiselle  Olympe 
Zabriski  to  accept  the  accompanying  trifle 
from  one  who  had  witnessed  her  graceful 
performances  with  interest  and  pleasure. 
This  was  not  done  inconsiderately.  "  Of 
course  I  must  enclose  my  card,  as  I  would 
to  any  lady,"  Van  Twiller  had  said  to  him 
self.  "  A  Van  Twiller  can  neither  write  an 
anonymous  letter  nor  make  an  anonymous 
present."  Blood  entails  its  duties  as  well 
as  its  privileges. 

The  casket  despatched  to  its  destination, 
Van  Twiller  felt  easier  in  his  mind.  He 


162     MADEMOISELLE  OLYMPE  ZABRISKL 

was  under  obligations  to  the  girl  for  many 
an  agreeable  hour  that  might  otherwise  have 
passed  heavily.  He  had  paid  the  debt,  and 
he  had  paid  it  en  prince,  as  became  a  Van 
Twiller.  He  spent  the  rest  of  the  day  in 
looking  at  some  pictures  at  Goupil's,  and  at 
the  club,  and  in  making  a  few  purchases  for 
his  trip  up  the  Hudson.  A  consciousness 
that  this  trip  up  the  Hudson  was  a  disorderly 
retreat  came  over  him  unpleasantly  at  inter 
vals. 

When  he  returned  to  his  rooms  late  at 
night,  he  found  a  note  lying  on  the  writing- 
table.  He  started  as  his  eye  caught  the 

words  " Theatre"  stamped  in  carmine 

letters  on  one  corner  of  the  envelope.  Van 
Twiller  broke  the  seal  with  trembling  fingers. 

Now,  this  note  some  time  afterwards  fell 
into  the  hands  of  Livingstone,  who  showed 
it  to  Stuyvesant,  who  showed  it  to  Delaney, 
who  showed  it  to  me,  and  I  copied  it  as  a  lit 
erary  curiosity.  The  note  ran  as  follows :  — 

MR  VAN  TWILLER  DEAR  SIR  —  i  am  verry 
greatfull  to  you  for  that  Bracelet!,  it  come  just 
in  the  nic  of  time  for  me.  The  Mademoiselle 
Zabriski  dodg  is  about  Plaid  out.  my  beard  is 
getting  to  much  for  me.  i  shall  have  to  grow  a 
mustash  and  take  to  some  other  line  of  busyness, 


MADEMOISELLE   OLYMPE  ZABRISKI.      163 

i  dont  no  what  now,  but  will  let  you  no.  You 
wont  feel  bad  if  i  sell  that  Bracelett.  i  have  seen 
Abrahams  Moss  and  he  says  he  will  do  the  square 
thing.  Pleas  accep  my  thanks  for  youre  Beauti- 
full  and  Unexpected  present. 

Youre  respectfull  servent, 
CHARLES  MONTMORENCI  WALTERS. 

The  next  day  Van  Twiller  neither  ex 
pressed  nor  felt  any  unwillingness  to  spend 
a  few  weeks  with  his  mother  at  the  old  home 
stead. 

And  then  he  went  abroad. 


A  STRUGGLE  FOR  LIFE. 

ONE  morning  as  I  was  passing  through 
Boston  Common,  which  lies  between  my  home 
and  my  office,  I  met  a  gentleman  lounging 
along  The  Mall.  I  am  generally  preoccu 
pied  when  walking,  and  often  thrid  my  way 
through  crowded  streets  without  distinctly 
observing  any  one.  But  this  man's  face 
forced  itself  upon  me,  and  a  singular  face  it 
was.  His  eyes  were  faded,  and  his  hair, 
which  he  wore  long,  was  flecked  with  gray. 
His  hair  and  eyes,  if  I  may  say  so,  were 
sixty  years  old,  the  rest  of  him  not  thirty. 
The  youthfulness  of  his  figure,  the  elasticity 
of  his  gait,  and  the  venerable  appearance  of 
his  head  were  incongruities  that  drew  more 
than  one  pair  of  curious  eyes  towards  him. 
He  excited  in  me  the  painful  suspicion  that 
he  had  got  either  somebody  else's  head  or 
somebody  else's  body.  He  was  evidently  an 
American,  at  least  so  far  as  the  upper  part 
of  him  was  concerned  —  the  New  England 


A  STRUGGLE  FOR  LIFE.  165 

cut  of  countenance  is  unmistakable  —  evi 
dently  a  man  who  had  seen  something  of 
the  world,  but  strangely  young  and  old. 

Before  reaching  the  Park  Street  gate,  I 
had  taken  up  the  thread  of  thought  which 
he  had  unconsciously  broken  ;  yet  through 
out  the  day  this  old  young  man,  with  his  un- 
wrinkled  brow  and  silvered  locks,  glided  in 
like  a  phantom  between  me  and  my  duties. 

The  next  morning  I  again  encountered 
him  on  The  Mall.  He  was  resting  lazily  on 
the  green  rails,  watching  two  little  sloops  in 
distress,  which  two  ragged  ship-owners  had 
consigned  to  the  mimic  perils  of  the  Pond. 
The  vessels  lay  becalmed  in  the  middle  of 
the  ocean,  displaying  a  tantalizing  lack  of 
sympathy  with  the  frantic  helplessness  of  the 
owners  on  shore.  As  the  gentleman  observed 
their  dilemma,  a  light  came  into  his  faded 
eyes,  then  died  out,  leaving  them  drearier 
than  before.  I  wondered  if  he,  too,  in  his 
time,  had  sent  out  ships  that  drifted  and 
drifted  and  never  came  to  port ;  and  if  these 
poor  toys  were  to  him  types  of  his  own 
losses. 

"  That  man  has  a  story,  and  I  should  like 
to  know  it,"  I  said,  half  aloud,  halting  in 
one  of  those  winding  paths  which  branch  off 


166  A  STRUGGLE  FOR  LIFE. 

from  the  pastoral  quietness  of  the  Pond,  and 
end  in  the  rush  and  tumult  of  Tremont 
Street. 

"  Would  you  ?  "  exclaimed  a  voice  at  my 

side.  I  turned  and  faced  Mr.  H ,  a 

neighbor  of  mine,  who  laughed  heartily  at 
finding  me  talking  to  myself.  "  Well,"  he 
added,  reflectingly,  "  I  can  tell  you  this 
man's  story ;  and  if  you  will  match  the  nar 
rative  with  anything  as  curious,  I  shall  be 
glad  to  hear  it." 

"  You  know  him,  then  ?  " 

"  Yes  and  no.  That  is  to  say,  I  do  not 
know  him  personally ;  but  I  know  a  singular 
passage  in  his  life.  I  happened  to  be  in 
Paris  when  he  was  buried." 

"  Buried !  " 

"  Well,  strictly  speaking,  not  buried ;  but 
something  quite  like  it.  If  you  've  a  spare 

half  hour,"  continued  my  friend  H , 

"  we  '11  sit  on  this  bench,  and  I  will  tell  you 
all  I  know  of  an  affair  that  made  some  noise 
in  jParis  a  couple  of  years  ago.  The  gentle 
man  himself,  standing  yonder,  will  serve  as 
a  sort  of  frontispiece  to  the  romance  —  a 
full-page  illustration,  as  it  were." 

The  following  pages  contain  the  story 
which  Mr.  H related  to  me.  While  he 


A  STRUGGLE  FOR  LIFE.  167 

was  telling  it,  a  gentle  wind  arose ;  the 
miniature  sloops  drifted  feebly  about  the 
ocean  ;  the  wretched  owners  flew  from  point 
to  point,  as  the  deceptive  breeze  promised 
to  waft  the  barks  to  either  shore ;  the  early 
robins  trilled  now  and  then  from  the  newly 
fringed  elms ;  and  the  old  young  man  leaned 
on  the  rail  in  the  sunshine,  little  dreaming 
that  two  gossips  were  discussing  his  affairs 
within  twenty  yards  of  him. 

Three  persons  were  sitting  in  a  salon 
whose  one  large  window  overlooked  the 
Place  VendSme.  M.  Dorine,  with  his  back 
half  turned  on  the  other  two  occupants  of 
the  apartment,  was  reading  the  Journal  des 
Debats  in  an  alcove,  pausing  from  time 
to  time  to  wipe  his  glasses,  and  taking  scru 
pulous  pains  not  to  glance  towards  the 
lounge  at  his  right,  on  which  were  seated 
Mile.  Dorine  and  a  young  American  gentle 
man,  whose  handsome  face  rather  frankly 
told  his  position  in  the  family.  There  was 
not  a  happier  man  in  Paris  that  afternoon 
than  Philip  Wentworth.  Life  had  become 
so  delicious  to  him  that  he  shrunk  from 
looking  beyond  to-day.  What  could  the 
future  add  to  his  full  heart,  what  might  it 


168  A  STRUGGLE  FOR  LIFE. 

not  take  away?  The  deepest  joy  has  al 
ways  something  of  melancholy  in  it  —  a 
presentiment,  a  fleeting  sadness,  a  feeling 
without  a  name.  Wentworth  was  conscious 
of  this  subtile  shadow  that  night,  when  he 
rose  from  the  lounge  and  thoughtfully  held 
Julie's  hand  to  his  lip  for  a  moment  before 
parting.  A  careless  observer  would  not 
have  thought  him,  as  he  was,  the  happiest 
man  in  Paris. 

M.  Dorine  laid  down  his  paper,  and  came 
forward.  "  If  the  house,"  he  said,  "  is  such 
as  M.  Cherbonneau  describes  it,  I  advise 
you  to  close  with  him  at  once.  I  would 
accompany  you,  Philip,  but  the  truth  is,  I 
am  too  sad  at  losing  this  little  bird  to  assist 
you  in  selecting  a  cage  for  her.  Remember, 
the  last  train  for  town  leaves  at  five.  Be 
sure  not  to  miss  it ;  for  we  have  seats  for 
Sardou's  new  comedy  to-morrow  night.  By 
to-morrow  night,"  he  added  laughingly,  "lit 
tle,  Julie  here  will  be  an  old  lady  —  it  is 
such  an  age  from  now  until  then." 

The  next  morning  the  train  bore  Philip 
to  one  of  the  loveliest  spots  within  thirty 
miles  of  Paris.  An  hour's  walk  through 
green  lanes  brought  him  to  M.  Cherbon- 
neau's  estate.  In  a  kind  of  dream  the 


A  STRUGGLE  FOR  LIFE.  169 

young  man  wandered  from  room  to  room, 
inspected  the  conservatory,  the  stables,  the 
lawns,  the  strip  of  woodland  through  which 
a  merry  brook  sang  to  itself  continually ; 
and,  after  dining  with  M.  Cherbonneau, 
completed  the  purchase,  and  turned  his 
steps  towards  the  station  just  in  time  to 
catch  the  express  train. 

As  Paris  stretched  out  before  him,  with 
its  lights  twinkling  in  the  early  dusk,  and 
its  spires  and  domes  melting  into  the  even 
ing  air,  it  seemed  to  Philip  as  if  years  had 
elapsed  since  he  left  the  city.  On  reaching 
Paris  he  drove  to  his  hotel,  where  he  found 
several  letters  lying  on  the  table.  He  did 
not  trouble  himself  even  to  glance  at  their 
superscriptions  as  he  threw  aside  his  travel 
ling  surtout  for  a  more  appropriate  dress. 

If,  in  his  impatience  to  return  to  Mile. 
Dorine,  the  cars  had  appeared  to  walk,  the 
fiacre  which  he  had  secured  at  the  station 
appeared  to  creep.  At  last  it  turned  into 
the  Place  Vendome,  and  drew  up  before  M. 
Dorine's  hotel.  The  door  opened  as  Philip's 
foot  touched  the  first  step.  The  valet  si 
lently  took  his  cloak  and  hat,  with  a  special 
deference,  Philip  thought ;  but  was  he  not 
now  one  of  the  family  ? 


170  A  STRUGGLE  FOR  LIFE. 

"  M.  Dorine,"  said  the  servant  slowly, 
"  is  unable  to  see  Monsieur  at  present.  He 
wishes  Monsieur  to  be  shown  up  to  the 
salon." 

"  Is  Mademoiselle  " — 

"  Yes,  Monsieur." 

"Alone?" 

"  Alone,  Monsieur,"  repeated  the  man, 
looking  curiously  at  Philip,  who  could  scarce 
ly  repress  an  exclamation  of  pleasure. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  such  a  privilege 
had  been  accorded  him.  His  interviews 
with  Julie  had  always  taken  place  in  the 
presence  of  M.  Dorine,  or  some  member  of 
the  household.  A  well-bred  Parisian  girl 
has  but  a  formal  acquaintance  with  her 
lover. 

Philip  did  not  linger  on  the  staircase ; 
with  a  light  heart,  he  went  up  the  steps,  two 
at  a  time,  hastened  through  the  softly  lighted 
hall,  in  which  he  detected  the  faint  scent  of 
her  favorite  flowers,  and  stealthily  opened 
the  door  of  the  salon. 

The  room  was  darkened.  Underneath 
the  chandelier  stood  a  slim  black  casket  on 
trestles.  A  lighted  candle,  a  crucifix,  and 
some  white  flowers  were  on  a  table  near  by. 
Julie  Dorine  was  dead. 


A  STRUGGLE  FOR  LIFE.  171 

When  M.  Dorine  heard  the  sudden  cry 
that  rang  through  the  silent  house,  he  hur 
ried  from  the  library,  and  found  Philip  stand 
ing  like  a  ghost  in  the  middle  of  the  chamber. 

It  was  not  until  long  afterwards  that 
Wentworth  learned  the  details  of  the  ca 
lamity  that  had  befallen  him.  On  the  pre 
vious  night  Mile.  Dorine  had  retired  to  her 
room  in  seemingly  perfect  health,  and  had 
dismissed  her  maid  with  a  request  to  be 
awakened  early  the  next  morning.  At  the 
appointed  hour  the  girl  entered  the  chamber. 
Mile.  Dorine  was  sitting  in  an  arm-chair,  ap 
parently  asleep.  The  candle  in  the  bougeoir 
had  burnt  down  to  the  socket ;  a  book  lay 
half  open  on  the  carpet  at  her  feet.  The 
girl  started  when  she  saw  that  the  bed  had 
not  been  occupied,  and  that  her  mistress  still 
wore  an  evening  dress.  She  rushed  to  Mile. 
Dorine's  side.  It  was  not  slumber ;  it  was 
death. 

Two  messages  were  at  once  despatched  to 

Philip,  one  to  the  station  at  G ,  the  other 

to  his  hQtel.  The  first  missed  him  on  the 
road,  the  second  he  had  neglected  to  open. 
On  his  arrival  at  M.  Dorine's  house,  the 
valet,  under  the  supposition  that  Wentworth 
had  been  advised  of  Mile.  Dorine's  death, 


172  A  STRUGGLE  FOR  LIFE. 

broke  the  intelligence  with  awkward  cruelty, 
by  showing  him  directly  to  the  salon. 

Mile.  Dorine's  wealth,  her  beauty,  the  sud 
denness  of  her  death,  and  the  romance  that 
had  in  some  way  attached  itself  to  her  love 
for  the  young  American  drew  crowds  to 
witness  the  funeral  ceremonies,  which  took 
place  in  the  church  in  the  Rue  d'Aguesseau. 
The  body  was  to  be  laid  in  M.  Dorine's 
tomb,  in  the  cemetery  of  Montmartre. 

This  tomb  requires  a  few  words  of  de 
scription.  First  there  was  a  grating  of 
filigraned  iron ;  through  this  you  looked 
into  a  small  vestibule  or  hall,  at  the  end 
of  which  was  a  massive  door  of  oak  opening 
upon  a  short  flight  of  stone  steps  descend 
ing  into  the  tomb.  The  vault  was  fifteen 
or  twenty  feet  square,  ingeniously  ventilated 
from  the  ceiling,  but  unlighted.  It  con 
tained  two  sarcophagi:  the  first  held  the 
remains  of  Madame  Dorine,  long  since 
dead ;  the  other  was  new,  and  bore  on  one 
side  the  letters  J.  D.,  in  monogram,  inter 
woven  with  fleurs-de-lis. 

The  funeral  train  stopped  at  the  gate  of 
the  small  garden  that  enclosed  the  place  of 
burial,  only  the  immediate  relatives  follow 
ing  the  bearers  into  the  tomb.  A  slender 


A  STRUGGLE  FOR  LIFE.  173 

wax  candle,  such  as  is  used  in  Catholic 
churches,  burnt  at  the  foot  of  the  uncovered 
sarcophagus,  casting  a  dim  glow  over  the 
centre  of  the  apartment,  and  deepening  the 
shadows  which  seemed  to  huddle  together  in 
the  corners.  By  this  flickering  light  the 
coffin  was  placed  in  its  granite  shell,  the 
heavy  slab  laid  over  it  reverently,  and  the 
oaken  door  swung  on  its  rusty  hinges,  shut 
ting  out  the  uncertain  ray  of  sunshine  that 
had  ventured  to  peep  in  on  the  darkness. 

M.  Dorine,  muffled  in  his  cloak,  threw 
himself  on  the  back  seat  of  the  landau,  too 
abstracted  in  his  grief  to  observe  that  he 
was  the  only  occupant  of  the  vehicle.  There 
was  a  sound  of  wheels  grating  on  the  grav 
elled  avenue,  and  then  all  was  silence  again 
in  the  cemetery  of  Montmartre.  At  the 
main  entrance  the  carriages  parted  com 
pany,  dashing  off  into  various  streets  at 
a  pace  that  seemed  to  express  a  sense  of 
relief. 

The  rattle  of  wheels  had  died  out  of  the 
air  when  Philip  opened  his  eyes,  bewildered, 
like  a  man  abruptly  roused  from  slumber. 
He  raised  himself  on  one  arm  and  stared 
into  the  surrounding  blackness.  Where 
was  he  ?  In  a  second  the  truth  flashed 


174  A  STRUGGLE  FOR  LIFE. 

upon  him.  He  had  been  left  in  the  tomb ! 
While  kneeling  on  the  farther  side  of  the 
stone  box,  perhaps  he  had  fainted,  and  dur 
ing  the  last  solemn  rites  his  absence  had 
been  unnoticed. 

His  first  emotion  was  one  of  natural 
terror.  But  this  passed  as  quickly  as  it 
came.  Life  had  ceased  to  be  so  very  pre 
cious  to  him ;  and  if  it  were  his  fate  to  die 
at  Julie's  side,  was  not  that  the  fulfilment  of 
the  desire  which  he  had  expressed  to  himself 
a  hundred  times  that  morning  ?  What  did 
it  matter,  a  few  years  sooner  or  later  ?  He 
must  lay  down  the  burden  at  last.  Why  not 
then  ?  A  pang  of  self-reproach  followed  the 
thought.  Could  he  so  lightly  throw  aside 
the  love  that  had  bent  over  his  cradle  ? 
The  sacred  name  of  mother  rose  involunta 
rily  to  his  lips.  Was  it  not  cowardly  to 
yield  up  without  a  struggle  the  life  which 
he  should  guard  for  her  sake  ?  Was  it  not 
his  duty  to  the  living  and  the  dead  to  face 
the  difficulties  of  his  position,  and  overcome 
them  if  it  were  within  human  power? 

With  an  organization  as  delicate  as  a 
woman's  he  had  that  spirit  which,  however 
sluggish  in  repose,  leaps  with  a  kind  of  exul 
tation  to  measure  its  strength  with  disaster. 


A  STRUGGLE  FOR  LIFE.  175 

The  vague  fear  of  the  supernatural,  that 
would  affect  most  men  in  a  similar  situation, 
found  no  room  in  his  heart.  He  was  simply 
shut  in  a  chamber  from  which  it  was  neces 
sary  that  he  should  obtain  release  within  a 
given  period.  That  this  chamber  contained 
the  body  of  the  woman  he  loved,  so  far  from 
adding  to  the  terror  of  the  case,  was  a  cir 
cumstance  from  which  he  drew  consolation. 
She  was  a  beautiful  white  statue  now.  Her 
soul  was  far  hence ;  and  if  that  pure  spirit 
could  return,  would  it  not  be  to  shield  him 
with  her  love  ?  It  was  impossible  that  the 
place  should  not  engender  some  thought  of 
the  kind.  He  did  not  put  the  thought  en 
tirely  from  him  as  he  rose  to  his  feet  and 
stretched  out  his  hands  in  the  darkness ;  but 
his  mind  was  too  healtljy  and  practical  to 
indulge  long  in  such  speculations. 

Philip,  being  a  smoker,  chanced  to  have 
in  his  pocket  a  box  of  allumettes.  After 
several  ineffectual  essays,  he  succeeded  in 
igniting  one  against  the  dank  wall,  and  by 
its  momentary  glare  perceived  that  the  can 
dle  had  been  left  in  the  tomb.  This  would 
serve  him  in  examining  the  fastenings  of 
the  vault.  If  he  could  force  the  inner  door 
by  any  means,  and  reach  the  grating,  of 


176  A  STRUGGLE  FOR  LIFE. 

which  he  had  an  indistinct  recollection,  he 
might  hope  to  make  himself  heard.  But  the 
oaken  door  was  immovable,  as  solid  as  the 
wall  itself,  into  which  it  fitted  air-tight. 
Even  if  he  had  had  the  requisite  tools,  there 
were  no  fastenings  to  be  removed ;  the 
hinges  were  set  on  the  outside. 

Having  ascertained  this,  Philip  replaced 
the  candle  on  the  floor,  and  leaned  against 
the  wall  thoughtfully,  watching  the  blue  fan 
of  flame  that  wavered  to  and  fro,  threaten 
ing  to  detach  itself  from  the  wick.  "  At 
all  events,"  he  thought,  "  the  place  is  ven 
tilated."  Suddenly  he  sprang  forward  and 
extinguished  the  light. 

His  existence  depended  on  that   candle  ! 

He  had  read  somewhere,  in  some  account 
of  shipwreck,  how.  the  survivors  had  lived 
for  days  upon  a  few  candles  which  one  of  the 
passengers  had  insanely  thrown  into  the 
long-boat.  And  here  he  had  been  burning 
away  his  very  life  ! 

By  the  transient  illumination  of  one  of 
the  tapers,  he  looked  at  his  watch.  It  had 
stopped  at  eleven  —  but  eleven  that  day,  or 
the  preceding  night  ?  The  funeral,  he  knew, 
had  left  the  church  at  ten.  How  many 
hours  had  passed  since  then  ?  Of  what  du- 


A  STRUGGLE  FOR  LIFE.  177 

ration  had  been  his  swoon  ?  Alas !  it  was 
no  longer  possible  for  him  to  measure 
those  hours  which  crawl  like  snails  by  the 
wretched,  and  fly  like  swallows  over  the 
happy. 

He  picked  up  the  candle,  and  seated  him 
self  on  the  stone  steps.  He  was  a  sanguine 
man,  but,  as  he  weighed  the  chances  of  es 
cape,  the  prospect  appalled  him.  Of  course 
he  would  be  missed.  His  disappearance 
under  the  circumstances  would  surely  alarm 
his  friends ;  they  would  institute  a  search 
for  him  ;  but  who  would  think  of  searching 
for  a  live  man  in  the  cemetery  of  Montmar- 
tre  ?  The  pre"f et  of  police  would  set  a  hun 
dred  intelligences  at  work  to  find  him  ; 
the  Seine  might  be  dragged,  les  mis£rables 
turned  over  at  the  Morgue  ;  a  minute  de 
scription  of  him  would  be  in  every  detec 
tive's  pocket;  and  he — in  M.  Dorine's  fam 
ily  tomb ! 

Yet,  on  the  other  hand,  it  was  here  he 
was  last  seen ;  from  this  point  a  keen  de 
tective  would  naturally  work  up  the  case. 
Then  might  not  the  undertaker  return  for 
the  candlestick,  probably  not  left  by  de 
sign  ?  Or,  again,  might  not  M.  Dorine  send 
fresh  wreaths  of  flowers,  to  take  the  place 


178  A  STRUGGLE  FOR  LIFE. 

of  those  which  now  diffused  a  pungent,  aro 
matic  odor  throughout  the  chamber  ?  Ah  I 
what  unlikely  chances  !  But  if  one  of  these 
things  did  not  happen  speedily,  it  had  better 
never  happen.  How  long  could  he  keep  life 
in  himself  ? 

With  his  pocket-knife  Wentworth  cut 
the  half-burned  candle  into  four  equal  parts. 
"  To-night,"  he  meditated,  "  I  will  eat  the 
first  of  these  pieces  ;  to-morrow,  the  second  ; 
to-morrow  evening,  the  third  ;  the  next  day, 
the  fourth  ;  and  then  —  then  I  '11  wait !  " 

He  had  taken  no  breakfast  that  morning, 
unless  a  cup  of  coffee  can  be  called  a  break 
fast.  He  had  never  been  very  hungry  be 
fore.  He  was  ravenously  hungry  now.  But 
he  postponed  the  meal  as  long  as  practicable. 
It  must  have  been  near  midnight,  according 
to  his  calculation,  when  he  determined  to  try 
the  first  of  his  four  singular  repasts.  The 
bit  of  white-wax  was  tasteless  ;  but  it  served 
its  purpose. 

His  appetite  for  the  time  appeased,  he 
found  a  new  discomfort.  The  humidity  of 
the  walls,  and  the  wind  that  crept  through 
the  unseen  ventilator,  chilled  him  to  the 
bone.  To  keep  walking  was  his  only  re 
source.  A  kind  of  drowsiness,  too,  occasion- 


A  STRUGGLE  FOR  LIFE.  179 

ally  came  over  him.  It  took  all  his  will  to 
fight  it  off.  To  sleep,  he  felt,  was  to  die ; 
and  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  live. 

The  strangest  fancies  flitted  through  his 
head  as  he  groped  up  and  down  the  stone 
floor  of  the  dungeon,  feeling  his  way  along 
the  wall  to  avoid  the  sepulchres.  Voices 
that  had  long  been  silent  spoke  words  that 
had  long  been  forgotten ;  faces  he  had 
known  in  childhood  grew  palpable  against 
the  dark.  His  whole  life  in  detail  was  un 
rolled  before  him  like  a  panorama  ;  the 
changes  of  a  year,  with  its  burden  of  love 
and  death,  its  sweets  and  its  bitternesses, 
were  epitomized  in  a  single  second.  The 
desire  to  sleep  had  left  him,  but  the  keen 
hunger  came  again. 

"  It  must  be  near  morning  now,"  he 
mused;  "perhaps  the  sun  is  just  gilding  the 
towers  of  Notre  Dame ;  or,  may  be,  a  dull, 
drizzling  rain  is  beating  on  Paris,  sobbing 
on  these  mounds  above  me.  Paris !  it  seems 
like  a  dream.  Did  I  ever  walk  in  its  gay 
boulevards  in  the  golden  air?  Oh,  the  de 
light  and  pain  and  passion  of  that  sweet 
human  life ! " 

Philip  became  conscious  that  the  gloom, 
the  silence,  and  the  cold  were  gradually 


180  A  STRUGGLE  FOR  LIFE. 

conquering  him.  The  feverish  activity  of 
his  brain  brought  on  a  reaction.  He  grew 
lethargic  ;  he  sunk  down  on  the  steps,  and 
thought  of  nothing.  His  hand  fell  by 
chance  on  one  of  the  pieces  of  candle ;  he 
grasped  it  and  devoured  it  mechanically. 
This  revived  him.  "How  strange,"  he 
thought,  "  that  I  am  not  thirsty.  Is  it  pos 
sible  that  the  dampness  of  the  walls,  which 
I  must  inhale  with  every  breath,  has  sup 
plied  the  need  of  water?  Not  a  drop  has 
passed  my  lips  for  two  days,  and  still  I  ex 
perience  no  thirst.  That  drowsiness,  thank 
Heaven,  has  gone.  I  think  I  was  never 
wide  awake  until  this  hour.  It  would  be  an 
anodyne  like  poison  that  could  weigh  down 
my  eyelids.  No  doubt  the  dread  of  sleep 
has  something  to  do  with  this." 

The  minutes  were  like  hours.  Now  he 
walked  as  briskly  as  he  dared  up  and  down 
the  tomb ;  now  he  rested  against  the  door. 
More  than  once  he  was  tempted  to  throw 
himself  upon  the  stone  coffin  that  held 
Julie,  and  make  no  further  struggle  for  his 
life. 

Only  one  piece  of  candle  remained.  He 
had  eaten  the  third  portion,  not  to  satisfy 
hunger,  but  from  a  precautionary  motive. 


A  STRUGGLE  FOR  LIFE.  181 

He  had  taken  it  as  a  man  takes  some  dis 
agreeable  drug  upon  the  result  of  which 
hangs  safety.  The  time  was  rapidly  ap 
proaching  when  even  this  poor  substitute 
for  nourishment  would  be  exhausted.  He 
delayed  that  moment.  He  gave  himself  a 
long  fast  this  time.  The  half-inch  of  candle 
which  he  held  in  his  hand  was  a  sacred 
thing  to  him.  It  was  his  last  defence  against 
death. 

Finally,  with  such  a  sinking  at  heart  as 
he  had  not  known  before,  he  raised  it  to  his 
lips.  Then  he  paused,  then  he  hurled  the 
fragment  across  the  tomb,  then  the  oaken 
door  was  flung  open,  and  Philip,  with  daz 
zled  eyes,  saw  M.  Dorine's  form  sharply  de 
fined  against  the  blue  sky. 

When  they  led  him  out,  half  blinded,  into 
the  broad  daylight,  M.  Dorine  noticed  that 
Philip's  hair,  which  a  short  time  since  was 
as  black  as  a  crow's  wing,  had  actually 
turned  gray  in  places.  The  man's  eyes,  too, 
had  faded  ;  the  darkness  had  dimmed  their 
lustre. 

"  And  how  long  was  he  really  confined  in 
the  tomb?"  I  asked,  as  Mr.  H con 
cluded  the  story. 


182  A  STRUGGLE  FOR  LIFE. 

"  Just  one  hour  and  twenty  minutes  I " 
replied  Mr.  H ,  smiling  blandly. 

As  he  spoke,  the  Lilliputian  sloops,  with 
their  sails  all  blown  out  like  white  roses, 
came  floating  bravely  into  port,  and  Philip 
Wentworth  lounged  by  us,  wearily,  in  the 
pleasant  April  sunshine. 

Mr.  H 's  narrative  haunted  me.  Here 

was  a  man  who  had  undergone  a  strange 
ordeal.  Here  was  a  man  whose  sufferings 
were  unique.  His  was  no  threadbare  experi 
ence.  Eighty  minutes  had  seemed  like  two 
days  to  him  !  If  he  had  really  been  im 
mured  two  days  in  the  tomb,  the  story,  from 
my  point  of  view,  would  have  lost  its  tragic 
value. 

After  this  it  was  natural  that  I  should  re 
gard  Mr.  Wentworth  with  stimulated  curi 
osity.  As  I  met  him  from  day  to  day,  pass 
ing  through  the  Common  with  that  same 
introspective  air,  there  was  something  in  his 
loneliness  which  touched  me.  I  wondered 
that  I  had  not  read  before  in  his  pale,  med 
itative  face  some  such  sad  history  as  Mr. 

H had  confided  to  me.  I  formed  the 

resolution  of  speaking  to  him,  though  with 
no  very  lucid  purpose.  One  morning  we 


A  STRUGGLE  FOR  LIFE.  183 

came  face  to  face  at  the  intersection  of  two 
paths.  He  halted  courteously  to  allow  me 
the  precedence. 

"  Mr.  Wentworth,"  I  began,  "  I  "  — 

He  interrupted  me. 

"  My  name,  sir,"  he  said,  in  an  off-hand 
manner,  "is  Jones." 

"  Jo-Jo-Jones !  "  I  gasped. 

"  No,  not  Joseph  Jones,"  he  returned,  with 
a  glacial  air  —  "  Frederick." 

A  dim  light,  in  which  the  perfidy  of  my 
friend  H was  becoming  discernible,  be 
gan  to  break  upon  my  mind. 

It  will  probably  be  a  standing  wonder  to 
Mr.  Frederick  Jones  why  a  strange  man  ac 
costed  him  one  morning  on  the  Common  as 
"  Mr.  Wentworth,"  and  then  dashed  madly 
down  the  nearest  foot-path  and  disappeared 
in  the  crowd. 

The  fact  is,  I  had  been  duped  by  Mr. 
H ,  who  is  a  gentleman  of  literary  pro 
clivities,  and  has,  it  is  whispered,  become 
somewhat  demented  in  brooding  over  the 
Great  American  Novel  —  not  yet  hatched. 
He  had  actually  tried  the  effect  of  one  of 
his  chapters  on  me ! 

My  hero,  as  I  subsequently  learned,  is  a 
commonplace  young  person,  who  had  some 


184  A  STRUGGLE  FOR  LIFE. 

connection,  I  know  not  what,  with  the  build 
ing  of  that  graceful  granite  bridge  which 
spans  the  crooked  silver  lake  in  the  Public 
Garden. 

When  I  think  of  the  readiness  with  which 

Mr.  H built  up  his  airy  fabric  on  my 

credulity,  I  feel  half  inclined  to  laugh, 
though  I  am  deeply  mortified  at  having  been 
the  unresisting  victim  of  his  Black  Art. 


PERE  ANTOINE'S  DATE-PALM. 


NEAR  the  Leve*e,  and  not  far  from  the 
old  French  Cathedral  in  the  Place  d'Armes, 
at  New  Orleans,  stands  a  fine  date-palm, 
thirty  feet  in  height,  spreading  its  broad 
leaves  in  the  alien  air  as  hardily  as  if  its 
sinuous  roots  were  sucking  strength  from 
their  native  earth. 

Sir  Charles  Lyell,  in  his  Second  Visit  to 
the  United  States,  mentions  this  exotic  : 
"  The  tree  is  seventy  or  eighty  years  old ; 
for  P£re  Antoine,  a  Roman  Catholic  priest, 
who  died  about  twenty  years  ago,  told  Mr. 
Bringier  that  he  planted  it  himself,  when  he 
was  young.  In  his  will  he  provided  that 
they  who  succeeded  to  this  lot  of  ground 
should  forfeit  it  if  they  cut  down  the  palm." 

Wishing  to  learn  something  of  Pere  An- 
toine's  history,  Sir  Charles  Lyell  made  in 
quiries  among  the  ancient  Creole  inhabitants 
of  the  faubourg.  That  the  old  priest,  in  his 
last  days,  became  very  much  emaciated,  that 


186          PERE  ANTOINE'S  DATE-PALM. 

he  walked  about  the  streets  like  a  mummy, 
that  he  gradually  dried  up,  and  finally  blew 
away,  was  the  meagre  and  unsatisfactory 
result  of  the  tourist's  investigations.  This 
is  all  that  is  generally  told  of  Pere  Antoine. 
In  the  summer  of  1861,  while  New  Or 
leans  was  yet  occupied  by  the  Confederate 
forces,  I  met  at  Alexandria,  in  Virginia,  a 
lady  from  Louisiana  —  Miss  Blondeau  by 
name  —  who  gave  me  the  substance  of  the 
following  legend  touching  Pere  Antoine  and 
his  wonderful  date-palm.  If  it  should  ap 
pear  tame  to  the  reader,  it  will  be  because 
I  am  not  habited  in  a  black  ribbed-silk 
dress,  with  a  strip  of  point-lace  around  my 
throat,  like  Miss  Blondeau ;  it  will  be  be 
cause  I  lack  her  eyes  and  lips  and  Southern 
music  to  tell  it  with. 

When  P£re  Antoine  was  a  very  young 
man,  he  had  a  friend  whom  he  loved  as  he 
loved  his  life.  Emile  Jardin  returned  his 
passion,  and  the  two,  on  account  of  their 
friendship,  became  the  marvel  of  the  city 
where  they  dwelt.  One  was  never  seen 
without  the  other  ;  for  they  studied,  walked, 
ate,  and  slept  together. 

Thus  began  Miss  Blondeau,  with  the  air 


PERE  ANTOINE'S  DATE-PALM.          187 

of  Fiammetta  telling  her  prettiest  story  to 
the  Florentines  in  the  garden  of  Boccaccio. 

Antoine  and  Emile  were  preparing  to  en 
ter  the  Church  ;  indeed,  they  had  taken  the 
preliminary  steps,  when  a  circumstance  oc 
curred  which  changed  the  color  of  their 
lives.  A  foreign  lady,  from  some  nameless 
island  in  the  Pacific,  had  a  few  months  be 
fore  moved  into  their  neighborhood.  The 
lady  died  suddenly,  leaving  a  girl  of  sixteen 
or  seventeen,  entirely  friendless  and  unpro 
vided  for.  The  young  men  had  been  kind 
to  the  woman  during  her  illness,  and  at  her 
death  —  melting  with  pity  at  the  forlorn 
situation  of  Anglice,  the  daughter  —  swore 
between  themselves  to  love  and  watch  over 
her  as  if  she  were  their  sister. 

Now  Anglice  had  a  wild,  strange  beauty 
that  made  other  women  seem  tame  beside 
her;  and  in  the  course  of  time  the  young 
men  found  themselves  regarding  their  ward 
not  so  much  like  brothers  as  at  first.  In 
brief,  they  found  themselves  in  love  with 
her. 

They  struggled  with  their  hopeless  pas 
sion  month  after  month,  neither  betraying 
his  secret  to  the  other ;  for  the  austere  or 
ders  which  they  were  about  to  assume  pre- 


188         PERE  ANTOINE'S  DATE-PALM. 

eluded  the  idea  of  love  and  marriage.  Until 
then  they  had  dwelt  in  the  calm  air  of  re 
ligious  meditations,  unmoved  except  by  that 
pious  fervor  which  in  other  ages  taught 
men  to  brave  the  tortures  of  the  rack  and 
to  smile  amid  the  flames.  But  a  blonde 
girl,  with  great  eyes  and  a  voice  like  the 
soft  notes  of  a  vesper  hymn,  had  come  in 
between  them  and  their  ascetic  dreams  of 
heaven.  The  ties  that  had  bound  the  young 
men  together  snapped  silently  one  by  one. 
At  last  each  read  in  the  pale  face  of  the 
other  the  story  of  his  own  despair. 

And  she?  If  Anglice  shared  their  trou 
ble,  her  face  told  no  story.  It  was  like  the 
face  of  a  saint  on  a  cathedral  window. 
Once,  however,  as  she  came  suddenly  upon 
the  two  men  and  overheard  words  that 
seemed  to  burn  like  fire  on  the  lip  of  the 
speaker,  her  eyes  grew  luminous  for  an  in 
stant.  Then  she  passed  on,  her  face  as  im 
mobile  as  before  in  its  setting  of  wavy  gold 
hair. 

"Entre  or  et  roux  Dieu  fit  ses  longs  cheveux." 

One  night  Emile  and  Anglice  were  miss 
ing.  They  had  flown  —  but  whither,  no 
body  knew,  and  nobody,  save  Antoine,  cared. 
It  was  a  heavy  blow  to  Antoine  —  for  he 


PERE  ANTOINE'S  DATE-PALM.          189 

had  himself  half  resolved  to  confess  his 
love  to  Anglice  and  urge  her  to  fly  with 
him. 

A  strip  of  paper  slipped  from  a  volume 
on  Antoine's  prie-dieu,  and  fluttered  to  his 
feet. 

"  Do  not  be  angry,'"  said  the  bit  of  paper, 
piteously ;  "forgive  us,  for  we  love."  (Par- 
donnez-nous,  car  nous  aimons.) 

Three  years  went  by  wearily  enough. 
Antoine  had  entered  the  Church,  and  was 
already  looked  upon  as  a  rising  man  ;  but 
his  face  was  pale  and  his  heart  leaden,  for 
there  was  no  sweetness  in  life  for  him. 

Four  years  had  elapsed,  when  a  letter, 
covered  with  outlandish  postmarks,  was 
brought  to  the  young  priest  —  a  letter  from 
Anglice.  She  was  dying  ;  —  would  he  for 
give  her?  Emile,  the  year  previous,  had 
fallen  a  victim  to  the  fever  that  raged  on 
the  island  ;  and  their  child,  Anglice,  was 
likely  to  follow  him.  In  pitiful  terms  she 
begged  Antoine  to  take  charge  of  the  child 
until  she  was  old  enough  to  enter  the  con 
vent  of  the  Sacre'-Cceur.  The  epistle  was 
finished  hastily  by  another  hand,  informing 
Antoine  of  Madame  Jardin's  death  ;  it 
also  told  him  that  Anglice  had  been  placed 


190         PERE  ANTOINE'S  DATE-PALM. 

on  board  a  vessel  shortly  to  leave  the  island 
for  some  Western  port. 

The  letter,  delayed  by  storm  and  ship 
wreck,  was  hardly  read  and  wept  over  when 
little  Anglice  arrived. 

On  beholding  her,  Antoine  uttered  a  cry 
of  joy  and  surprise  —  she  was  so  like  the 
woman  he  had  worshipped. 

The  passion  that  had  been  crowded  down 
in  his  heart  broke  out  and  lavished  its  rich 
ness  on  this  child,  who  was  to  him  not  only 
the  Anglice  of  years  ago,  but  his  friend 
Emile  Jardin  also. 

Anglice  possessed  the  wild,  strange  beauty 
of  her  mother  —  the  bending,  willowy  form, 
the  rich  tint  of  skin,  the  large  tropical  eyes, 
that  had  almost  made  Antoine's  sacred  robes 
a  mockery  to  him. 

For  a  month  or  two  Anglice  was  wildly 
unhappy  in  her  new  home.  She  talked  con 
tinually  of  the  bright  country  where  she  was 
born,  the  fruits  and  flowers  and  blue  skies, 
the  tall,  fan-like  trees,  and  the  streams  that 
went  murmuring  through  them  to  the  sea. 
Antoine  could  not  pacify  her. 

By  and  by  she  ceased  to  weep,  and  went 
about  the  cottage  in  a  weary,  disconsolate 
way  that  cut  Antoine  to  the  heart.  A  long- 


PERE  ANTOIN&S  DATE-PALM.  191 

tailed  paroquet,  which  she  had  brought  with 
her  in  the  ship,  walked  solemnly  behind  her 
from  room  to  room,  mutely  pining,  it  seemed, 
for  those  heavy  orient  airs  that  used  to  ruffle 
its  brilliant  plumage. 

Before  the  year  ended,  he  noticed  that  the 
ruddy  tinge  had  faded  from  her  cheek,  that 
her  eyes  had  grown  languid,  and  her  slight 
figure  more  willowy  than  ever. 

A  physician  was  consulted.  He  could 
discover  nothing  wrong  with  the  child,  except 
this  fading  and  drooping.  He  failed  to  ac 
count  for  that.  It  was  some  vague  disease 
of  the  mind,  he  said,  beyond  his  skill. 

So  Anglice  faded  day  after  day.  She 
seldom  left  the  room  now.  At  last  Antoine 
could  not  shut  out  the  fact  that  the  child  was 
passing  away.  He  had  learned  to  love  her 
so ! 

"  Dear  heart,"  he  said  once,  "  what  is 't 
ails  thee  ?  " 

"Nothing,  mon  pere,"  for  so  she  called 
him. 

The  winter  passed,  the  balmy  spring  had 
come  with  its  magnolia  blooms  and  orange 
blossoms,  and  Anglice  seemed  to  revive.  In 
her  small  bamboo  chair,  on  the  porch,  she 
swayed  to  and  fro  in  the  fragrant  breeze, 


192          PERE  ANTOINE1  S  DATE-PALM. 

with  a  peculiar  undulating  motion,  like  a 
graceful  tree. 

At  times  something  seemed  to  weigh  upon 
her  mind.  Antoine  observed  it,  and  waited. 
Finally  she  spoke. 

"Near  our  house,"  said  little  Anglice  — 
"  near  our  house,  on  the  island,  the  palm- 
trees  are  waving  under  the  blue  sky.  Oh, 
how  beautiful !  I  seem  to  lie  beneath  them 
all  day  long.  I  am  very,  very  happy.  I 
yearned  for  them  so  much  that  I  grew  ill  — 
don't  you  think  it  was  so,  mon  pere  ?  " 

"  Helas,  yes  !  "  exclaimed  Antoine,  sud 
denly.  "Let  us  hasten  to  those  pleasant 
islands  where  the  palms  are  waving." 

Anglice  smiled. 

"  I  am  going  there,  mon  pe"re." 

A  week  from  that  evening  the  wax  candles 
burned  at  her  feet  and  forehead,  lighting 
her  on  the  journey. 

All  was  over.  Now  was  Antoine's  heart 
empty.  Death,  like  another  Emile,  had 
stolen  his  new  Anglice.  He  had  nothing  to 
do  but  to  lay  the  blighted  flower  away. 

Pe're  Antoine  made  a  shallow  grave  in  his 
garden,  and  heaped  the  fresh  brown  mould 
over  his  idol. 

In  the  tranquil  spring  evenings,  the  priest 


PERE  ANTOINE'S  DATE-PALM.          193 

was  seen  sitting  by  the  mound,  his  finger 
closed  in  the  unread  breviary. 

The  summer  broke  on  that  sunny  land ; 
and  in  the  cool  morning  twilight,  and  after 
nightfall,  Antoine  lingered  by  the  grave. 
He  could  never  be  with  it  enough. 

One  morning  he  observed  a  delicate  stem, 
with  two  curiously  shaped  emerald  leaves, 
springing  up  from  the  centre  of  the  mound. 
At  first  he  merely  noticed  it  casually ;  but 
presently  the  plant  grew  so  tall,  and  was  so 
strangely  unlike  anything  he  had  ever  seen 
before,  that  he  examined  it  with  care. 

How  straight  and  graceful  and  exquisite 
it  was  !  When  it  swung  to  and  fro  with  the 
summer  wind,  in  the  twilight,  it  seemed  to 
Antoine  as  if  little  Anglice  were  standing 
there  in  the  garden. 

The  days  stole  by,  and  Antoine  tended  the 
fragile  shoot,  wondering  what  manner  of 
blossom  it  would  unfold,  white,  or  scarlet,  or 
golden.  One  Sunday,  a  stranger,  with  a 
bronzed,  weather-beaten  face  like  a  sailor's, 
leaned  over  the  garden  rail,  and  said  to  him, 

"  What  a  fine  young  date-palm  you  have 
there,  sir !  " 

"  Mon  Dieu !  "  cried  P£re  Antoine,  start 
ing,  "  and  is  it  a  palm  ?  " 


194         PERE  ANTOINPS  DATE-PALM. 

"Yes,  indeed,"  returned  the  man.  "I 
did  n't  reckon  the  tree  would  flourish  in  this 
latitude." 

"  Ah,  mon  Dieu !  "  was  all  the  priest 
could  say  aloud;  but  he  murmured  to  him 
self,  "  Bon  Dieu,  vous  m'avez  donne  cela !  " 

If  Pe're  Antoine  loved  the  tree  before,  he 
worshipped  it  now.  He  watered  it,  and  nur 
tured  it,  and  could  have  clasped  it  in  his 
arms.  Here  were  Emile  and  Anglice  and 
the  child,  all  in  one ! 

The  years  glided  away,  and  the  date-palm 
and  the  priest  grew  together  —  only  one  be 
came  vigorous  and  the  other  feeble.  Pere 
Antoine  had  long  passed  the  meridian  of 
life.  The  tree  was  in  its  youth.  It  no 
longer  stood  in  an  isolated  garden  ;  for  pre 
tentious  brick  and  stucco  houses  had  clus 
tered  about  Antoine's  cottage.  They  looked 
down  scowling  on  the  humble  thatched  roof. 
The  city  was  edging  up,  trying  to  crowd  him 
off  his  land.  But  he  clung  to  it  like  lichen 
and  refused  to  sell. 

Speculators  piled  gold  on  his  doorsteps, 
and  he  laughed  at  them.  Sometimes  he 
was  hungry,  and  cold,  and  thinly  clad ;  but 
he  laughed  none  the  less. 

"  Get  thee  behind  me,  Satan ! "  said  the 
old  priest's  smile. 


PERE  ANTOINE'S  DATE-PALM.          195 

Pe"re  Antoine  was  very  old  now,  scarcely 
able  to  walk ;  but  he  could  sit  under  the 
pliant,  caressing  leaves  of  his  palm,  loving 
it  like  an  Arab  ;  and  there  he  sat  till  the 
grimmest  of  speculators  came  to  him.  But 
even  in  death  Pere  Antoine  was  faithful  to 
his  trust. 

The  owner  of  that  land  loses  it  if  he  harm 
the  date-tree. 

And  there  it  stands  in  the  narrow,  dingy 
street,  a  beautiful,  dreamy  stranger,  an  ex 
quisite  foreign  lady  whose  grace  is  a  joy  to 
the  eye,  the  incense  of  whose  breath  makes 
the  air  enamored.  May  the  hand  wither 
that  touches  her  ungently ! 

"  Because  it  grew  from  the  heart  of  little 
Anglice"  said  Miss  Blondeau  tenderly. 


QUITE  SO. 


I. 

OF  course  that  was  not  his  name.  Even 
in  the  State  of  Maine,  where  it  is  still  a 
custom  to  maim  a  child  for  life  by  christen 
ing  him  Arioch  or  Shadrach  or  Ephraim, 
nobody  would  dream  of  calling  a  boy  "  Quite 
So."  It  was  merely  a  nickname  which  we 
gave  him  in  camp ;  but  it  stuck  to  him  with 
such  bur-like  tenacity,  and  is  so  inseparable 
from  my  memory  of  him,  that  I  do  not  think 
I  could  write  definitely  of  John  Bladburn 
if  I  were  to  call  him  anything  but  "  Quite 
So." 

It  was  one  night  shortly  after  the  first 
battle  of  Bull  Run.  The  Army  of  the  Po 
tomac,  shattered,  stunned,  and  forlorn,  was 
back  in  its  old  quarters  behind  the  earth 
works.  The  melancholy  line  of  ambulances 
bearing  our  wounded  to  Washington  was  not 
done  creeping  over  Long  Bridge ;  the  blue 
smocks  and  the  gray  still  lay  in  windrows  on 


QUITE  80.  197 

the  field  of  Manassas ;  and  the  gloom  that 
weighed  down  our  hearts  was  like  the  fog  that 
stretched  along  the  bosom  of  the  Potomac, 
and  enfolded  the  valley  of  the  Shenandoah. 
A  drizzling  rain  had  set  in  at  twilight,  and, 
growing  bolder  with  the  darkness,  was  beat 
ing  a  dismal  tattoo  on  the  tent  —  the  tent  of 
Mess  6,  Company  A,  -th  Kegiment,  N.  Y. 
Volunteers.  Our  mess,  consisting  originally 
of  eight  men,  was  reduced  to  four.  Little 
Billy,  as  one  of  the  boys  grimly  remarked, 
had  concluded  to  remain  at  Manassas  ;  Cor 
poral  Steele  we  had  to  leave  at  Fairfax 
Court-House,  shot  through  the  hip  ;  Hunter 
and  Suydam  we  had  said  good-by  to  that 
afternoon.  "  Tell  Johnny  B,eb,"  says  Hun 
ter,  lifting  up  the  leather  side-piece  of  the 
ambulance,  "  that  I  '11  be  back  again  as  soon 
as  I  get  a  new  leg."  But  Suydam  said  noth 
ing  ;  he  only  unclosed  his  eyes  languidly  and 
smiled  farewell  to  us. 

The  four  of  us  who  were  left  alive  and  un 
hurt  that  shameful  July  day  sat  gloomily 
smoking  our  brier-wood  pipes,  thinking  our 
thoughts,  and  listening  to  the  rain  pattering 
against  the  canvas.  That,  and  the  occa 
sional  whine  of  a  hungry  cur,  foraging  on 
the  outskirts  of  the  camp  for  a  stray  bone, 


198  Q.UITE  80. 

alone  broke  the  silence,  save  when  a  vicious 
drop  of  rain  detached  itself  meditatively 
from  the  ridge-pole  of  the  tent,  and  fell 
upon  the  wick  of  our  tallow  candle,  making 
it  "  cuss,"  as  Ned  Strong  described  it.  The 
candle  was  in  the  midst  of  one  of  its  most 
profane  fits  when  Blakely,  knocking  the 
ashes  from  his  pipe  and  addressing  no  one 
in  particular,  but  giving  breath,  uncon 
sciously  as  it  were,  to  the  result  of  his  cogi 
tations,  observed  that  "  it  was  considerable 
of  a  fizzle." 

"  The  '  on  to  Richmond '  business  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  I  wonder  what  they  '11  do  about  it  over 
yonder,"  said  Curtis,  pointing  over  his  right 
shoulder.  By  "  over  yonder  "  he  meant  the 
North  in  general  and  Massachusetts  espe 
cially.  Curtis  was  a  Boston  boy,  and  his 
sense  of  locality  was  so  strong  that,  during 
all  his  wanderings  in  Virginia,  I  do  not  be 
lieve  there  was  a  moment,  day  or  night,  when 
he  could  not  have  made  a  bee-line  for  Fan- 
euil  Hall. 

"  Do  about  it  ?  "  cried  Strong.  "  They  '11 
make  about  two  hundred  thousand  blue  flan 
nel  trousers  and  send  them  along,  each  pair 
with  a  man  in  it  —  all  the  short  men  in  the 


QUITE  SO.  199 

long  trousers,  and  all  the  tall  men  in  the 
short  ones,"  he  added,  ruefully  contemplat 
ing  his  own  leg-gear,  which  scarcely  reached 
to  his  ankles. 

"  That 's  so,"  said  Blakely.  "  Just  now, 
when  I  was  tackling  the  commissary  for  an 
extra  candle,  I  saw  a  crowd  of  new  fellows 
drawing  blankets." 

"  I  say  there,  drop  that ! "  cried  Strong. 
"  All  right,  sir,  did  n't  know  it  was  you," 
he  added  hastily,  seeing  it  was  Lieutenant 
Haines  who  had  thrown  back  the  flap  of  the 
tent,  and  let  in  a  gust  of  wind  and  rain  that 
threatened  the  most  serious  bronchial  conse 
quences  to  our  discontented  tallow  dip. 

"  You  're  to  bunk  in  here,"  said  the  lieu 
tenant,  speaking  to  some  one  outside.  The 
some  one  stepped  in,  and  Haines  vanished 
in  the  darkness. 

When  Strong  had  succeeded  in  restoring 
the  candle  to  consciousness,  the  light  fell  upon 
a  tall,  shy-looking  man  of  about  thirty-five, 
with  long,  hay-colored  beard  and  mustache, 
upon  which  the  rain-drops  stood  in  clusters, 
like  the  night-dew  on  patches  of  cobweb  in 
a  meadow.  It  was  an  honest  face,  with  un 
worldly  sort  of  blue  eyes,  that  looked  out 
from  under  the  broad  visor  of  the  infantry 


200  QUITE  SO. 

cap.  With  a  deferential  glance  towards 
us,  the  new-comer  unstrapped  his  knapsack, 
spread  his  blanket  over  it,  and  sat  down  un 
obtrusively. 

"  Rather  damp  night  out,"  remarked 
Blakely,  whose  strong  hand  was  supposed  to 
be  conversation. 

"Quite  so,"  replied  the  stranger,  not 
curtly,  but  pleasantly,  and  with  an  air  as  if 
he  had  said  all  there  was  to  be  said  about  it. 

"  Come  from  the  North  recently  ?  "  in 
quired  Blakely,  after  a  pause. 

"  Yes." 

"  From  any  place  in  particular  ?  " 

"  Maine." 

"People  considerably  stirred  up  down 
there  ?  "  continued  Blakely,  determined  not 
to  give  up. 

"  Quite  so." 

Blakely  threw  a  puzzled  look  over  the 
tent,  and  seeing  Ned  Strong  on  the  broad 
grin,  frowned  severely.  Strong  instantly 
assumed  an  abstracted  air,  and  began  hum 
ming  softly, 

"  I  wish  I  was  in  Dixie." 

"  The  State  of  Maine,"  observed  Blakely, 
with  a  certain  defiance  of  manner  not  at  all 
necessary  in  discussing  a  geographical  ques 
tion,  "  is  a  pleasant  State." 


QUITE  SO.  201 

"  In  summer,"  suggested  the  stranger. 

"  In  summer,  I  mean,"  returned  Blakely 
with  animation,  thinking  he  had  broken  the 
ice.  "Cold  as  blazes  in  winter,  though  — 
is  n't  it?" 

The  new  recruit  merely  nodded. 

Blakely  eyed  the  man  homicidally  for  a 
moment,  and  then,  smiling  one  of  those 
smiles  of  simulated  gayety  which  the  novel 
ists  inform  us  are  more  tragic  than  tears, 
turned  upon  him  with  withering  irony. 

"  Trust  you  left  the  old  folks  pretty  com 
fortable?  " 

"Dead." 

"  The  old  folks  dead  !  " 

"  Quite  so." 

Blakely  made  a  sudden  dive  for  his 
blanket,  tucked  it  around  him  with  painful 
precision,  and  was  heard  no  more. 

Just  then  the  bugle  sounded  "  lights  out," 
—  bugle  answering  bugle  in  far-off  camps. 
When  our  not  elaborate  night-toilets  were 
complete,  Strong  threw  somebody  else's  old 
boot  at  the  candle  with  infallible  aim,  and 
darkness  took  possession  of  the  tent.  Ned, 
who  lay  on  my  left,  presently  reached  over 
to  me,  and  whispered,  "I  say,  our  friend 
'  quite  so '  is  a  garrulous  old  boy !  He  '11 


202  QUITE  SO. 

talk  himself  to  death  some  of  these  odd  times, 
if  he  is  n't  careful.  How  he  did  run  on !  " 

The  next  morning,  when  I  opened  my 
eyes,  the  new  member  of  Mess  6  was  sitting 
on  his  knapsack,  combing  his  blonde  beard 
with  a  horn  comb.  He  nodded  pleasantly 
to  me,  and  to  each  of  the  boys  as  they  woke 
up,  one  by  one.  Blakely  did  not  appear 
disposed  to  renew  the  animated  conversation 
of  the  previous  night ;  but  while  he  was 
gone  to  make  a  requisition  for  what  was  in 
pure  sarcasm  called  coffee,  Curtis  ventured 
to  ask  the  man  his  name. 

"  Bladburn,  John,"  was  the  reply. 

"  That 's  rather  an  unwieldy  name  for 
every-day  use,"  put  in  Strong.  "  If  it  would 
n't  hurt  your  feelings,  I  'd  like  to  call  you 
Quite  So  —  for  short.  Don't  say  no,  if  you 
don't  like  it.  Is  it  agreeable  ?  " 

Bladburn  gave  a  little  laugh,  all  to  him 
self,  seemingly,  and  was  about  to  say,  "  Quite 
so,"  when  he  caught  at  the  words,  blushed 
like  a  girl,  and  nodded  a  sunny  assent  to 
Strong.  From  that  day  until  the  end,  the 
sobriquet  clung  to  him. 

The  disaster  at  Bull  Run  was  followed, 
as  the  reader  knows,  by  a  long  period  of 
masterly  inactivity,  so  far  as  the  Army  of 


QUITE  SO.  203 

the  Potomac  was  concerned.  McDowell,  a 
good  soldier,  but  unlucky,  retired  to  Arling 
ton  Heights,  and  McClellan,  who  had  dis 
tinguished  himself  in  Western  Virginia,  took 
command  of  the  forces  in  front  of  Washing 
ton,  and  bent  his  energies  to  reorganizing 
the  demoralized  troops.  It  was  a  dreary 
time  to  the  people  of  the  North,  who  looked 
fatuously  from  week  to  week  for  "  the  fall 
of  Richmond ;  "  and  it  was  a  dreary  time  to 
the  denizens  of  that  vast  city  of  tents  and 
forts  which  stretched  in  a  semicircle  before 
the  beleaguered  Capitol  —  so  tedious  and 
soul-wearing  a  time  that  the  hardships  of 
forced  marches  and  the  horrors  of  battle 
became  desirable  things  to  them. 

Roll-call  morning  and  evening,  guard- 
duty,  dress-parades,  an  occasional  reconnois- 
sance,  dominoes,  wrestling-matches,  and  such 
rude  games  as  could  be  carried  on  in  camp 
made  up  the  sum  of  our  lives.  The  arrival 
of  the  mail  with  letters  and  papers  from 
home  was  the  event  of  the  day.  We  no 
ticed  that  Bladburn  neither  wrote  nor  re 
ceived  any  letters.  When  the  rest  of  the 
boys  were  scribbling  away  for  dear  life,  with 
drum-heads  and  knapsacks  and  cracker- 
boxes  for  writing-desks,  he  would  sit  se- 


204  QUITE  SO. 

renely  smoking  his  pipe,  but  looking  out  on 
us  through  rings  of  smoke  with  a  face  ex 
pressive  of  the  tenderest  interest. 

"Look  here,  Quite  So,"  Strong  would 
say,  "  the  mail-bag  closes  in  half  an  hour. 
Ain't  you  going  to  write  ?  " 

"  I  believe  not  to-day,"  Bladburn  would 
reply,  as  if  he  had  written  yesterday,  or 
would  write  to-morrow  :  but  he  never  wrote. 

He  had  become  a  great  favorite  with  us, 
and  with  all  the  officers  of  the  regiment. 
He  talked  less  than  any  ma,n  I  ever  knew, 
but  there  was  nothing  sinister  or  sullen  in 
his  reticence.  It  was  sunshine,  —  warmth 
and  brightness,  but  no  voice.  Unassuming 
and  modest  to  the  verge  of  shyness,  he  im 
pressed  every  one  as  a  man  of  singular  pluck 
and  nerve. 

"Do  you  know,"  said  Curtis  to  me  one 
day,  "  that  that  fellow  Quite  So  is  clear  grit, 
and  when  we  come  to  close  quarters  with  our 
Palmetto  brethren  over  yonder,  he  '11  do 
something  devilish  ?  " 

"  What  makes  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  Well,  nothing  quite  explainable ;  the 
exasperating  coolness  of  the  man,  as  much 
as  anything.  This  morning  the  boys  were 
teasing  Muffin  Fan  [a  small  mulatto  girl 


QUITE  SO.  205 

who  used  to  bring  muffins  into  camp  three 
times  a  week,  —  at  the  peril  of  her  life !] 
and  Jemmy  Blunt  of  Company  K  —  you 
know  him  —  was  rather  rough  on  the  girl, 
when  Quite  So,  who  had  been  reading  under 
a  tree,  shut  one  finger  in  his  book,  walked 
over  to  where  the  boys  were  skylarking,  and 
with  the  smile  of  a  juvenile  angel  on  his 
face  lifted  Jemmy  out  of  that  and  set  him 
down  gently  in  front  of  his  own  tent.  There 
Blunt  sat  speechless,  staring  at  Quite  So, 
who  was  back  again  under  the  tree,  pegging 
away  at  his  little  Latin  grammar." 

That  Latin  grammar !  He  always  had  it 
about  him,  reading  it  or  turning  over  its 
dog's-eared  pages  at  odd  intervals  and  in 
out-of-the-way  places.  Half  a  dozen  times 
a  day  he  would  draw  it  out  from  the  bosom 
of  his  blouse,  which  had  taken  the  shape  of 
the  book  just  over  the  left  breast,  look  at  it 
as  if  to  assure  himself  it  was  all  right,  and 
then  put  the  thing  back.  At  night  the  vol 
ume  lay  beneath  his  pillow.  The  first  thing 
in  the  morning,  before  he  was  well  awake, 
his  hand  would  go  groping  instinctively  un 
der  his  knapsack  in  search  of  it. 

A  devastating  curiosity  seized  upon  us 
boys  concerning  that  Latin  grammar,  for 


206  QUITE  SO. 

we  had  discovered  the  nature  of  the  book. 
Strong  wanted  to  steal  it  one  night,  but  con 
cluded  not  to.  "In  the  first  place,"  reflected 
Strong,  "  I  have  n't  the  heart  to  do  it,  and 
in  the  next  place  I  have  n't  the  moral  cour 
age.  Quite  So  would  placidly  break  every 
bone  in  my  body."  And  I  believe  Strong 
was  not  far  out  of  the  way. 

Sometimes  I  was  vexed  with  myself  for 
allowing  this  tall,  simple-hearted  country 
fellow  to  puzzle  me  so  much.  And  yet,  was 
he  a  simple-hearted  country  fellow  ?  City 
bred  he  certainly  was  not ;  but  his  manner,  in 
spite  of  his  awkwardness,  had  an  indescrib 
able  air  of  refinement.  Now  and  then,  too, 
he  dropped  a  word  or  a  phrase  that  showed 
his  familiarity  with  unexpected  lines  of  read 
ing.  "  The  other  day,"  said  Curtis,  with  the 
slightest  elevation  of  eyebrow,  "  he  had  the 
cheek  to  correct  my  Latin  for  me."  In  short, 
Quite  So  was  a  daily  problem  to  the  members 
of  Mess  6.  Whenever  he  was  absent,  and 
Blakely  and  Curtis  and  Strong  and  I  got 
together  in  the  tent,  we  discussed  him,  evolv 
ing  various  theories  to  explain  why  he  never 
wrote  to  anybody  and  why  nobody  ever 
wrote  to  him.  Had  the  man  committed 
some  terrible  crime,  and  fled  to  the  army  to 


QUITE  SO.  £07 

hide  his  guilt  ?  Blakely  suggested  that  he 
must  have  murdered  "the  old  folks."  What 
did  he  mean  by  eternally  conning  that  tat 
tered  Latin  grammar  ?  And  was  his  name 
Bladburn,  anyhow?  Even  his  imperturb 
able  amiability  became  suspicious.  And 
then  his  frightful  reticence  !  If  he  was  the 
victim  of  any  deep  grief  or  crushing  calam 
ity,  why  did  n't  he  seem  unhappy  ?  What 
business  had  he  to  be  cheerful  ? 

"  It  's  my  opinion,"  said  Strong,  "  that 
he  's  a  rival  Wandering  Jew;  the  original 
Jacobs,  you  know,  was  a  dark  fellow." 

Blakely  inferred  from  something  Blad 
burn  had  said,  or  something  he  had  not  said 
—  which  was  more  likely  —  that  he  had  been 
a  schoolmaster  at  some  period  of  his  life. 

"  Schoolmaster  be  hanged !  "  was  Strong's 
comment.  "  Can  you  fancy  a  schoolmaster 
going  about  conjugating  baby  verbs  out  of 
a  dratted  little  spelling-book  ?  No,  Quite  So 
has  evidently  been  a  —  a  —  Blest  if  I  can 
imagine  what  he  's  been !  " 

Whatever  John  Bladburn  had  been,  he 
was  a  lonely  man.  Whenever  I  want  a  type 
of  perfect  human  isolation,  I  shall  think  of 
him,  as  he  was  in  those  days,  moving  remote, 
self-contained,  and  alone  in  the  midst  of  two 
hundred  thousand  men. 


208  QUITE  SO. 


II. 

THE  Indian  summer,  with  its  infinite 
beauty  and  tenderness,  came  like  a  reproach 
that  year  to  Virginia.  The  foliage,  touched 
here  and  there  with  prismatic  tints,  drooped 
motionless  in  the  golden  haze.  The  delicate 
Virginia  creeper  was  almost  minded  to  put 
forth  its  scarlet  buds  again.  No  wonder  the 
lovely  phantom  —  this  dusky  Southern  sister 
of  the  pale  Northern  June  —  lingered  not 
long  with  us,  but,  filling  the  once  peaceful 
glens  and  valleys  with  her  pathos,  stole 
away  rebukef ully  before  the  savage  enginery 
of  man. 

The  preparations  that  had  been  going  on 
for  months  in  arsenals  and  foundries  at  the 
North  were  nearly  completed.  For  weeks 
past  the  air  had  been  filled  with  rumors  of 
an  advance  ;  but  the  rumor  of  to-day  refuted 
the  rumor  of  yesterday,  and  the  Grand 
Army  did  not  move.  Heintzelman's  corps 
was  constantly  folding  its  tents,  like  the 
Arabs,  and  as  silently  stealing  away;  but 


QUITE  SO.  209 

somehow  it  was  always  in  the  same  place 
the  next  morning.  One  day,  at  last,  orders 
came  down  for  our  brigade  to  move. 

"  We  're  going  to  Richmond,  boys  !  " 
shouted  Strong,  thrusting  his  head  in  at  the 
tent;  and  we  all  cheered  and  waved  our 
caps  like  mad.  You  see,  Big  Bethel  and 
BuU  Run  and  Ball's  Bluff  (the  bloody  B's, 
as  we  used  to  call  them)  had  n't  taught  us 
any  better  sense. 

Rising  abruptly  from  the  plateau,  to  the 
left  of  our  encampment,  was  a  tall  hill  cov 
ered  with  a  stunted  growth  of  red-oak,  per 
simmon,  and  chestnut.  The  night  before 
we  struck  tents  I  climbed  up  to  the  crest  to 
take  a  parting  look  at  a  spectacle  which  cus 
tom  had  not  been  able  to  rob  of  its  enchant 
ment.  There,  at  my  feet,  and  extending 
miles  and  miles  away,  lay  the  camps  of  the 
Grand  Army,  with  its  camp-fires  reflected 
luridly  against  the  sky.  Thousands  of  lights 
were  twinkling  in  every  direction,  some  nest 
ling  in  the  valley,  some  like  fire-flies  beating 
their  wings  and  palpitating  among  the  trees, 
and  others  stretching  in  parallel  lines  and 
curves,  like  the  street-lamps  of  a  city.  Some 
where,  far  off,  a  band  was  playing,  at  inter 
vals  it  seemed ;  and  now  and  then,  nearer 


210  QUITE  SO. 

to,  a  silvery  strain  from  a  bugle  shot  sharply 
up  through  the  night,  and  seemed  to  lose 
itself  like  a  rocket  among  the  stars  —  the 
patient,  untroubled  stars.  Suddenly  a  hand 
was  laid  upon  my  arm. 

"  I  'd  like  to  say  a  word  to  you,"  said 
Bladburn. 

With  a  little  start  of  surprise,  I  made 
room  for  him  on  the  fallen  tree  where  I  was 
seated. 

"  I  may  n't  get  another  chance,"  he  said. 
"  You  and  the  boys  have  been  very  kind  to 
me,  kinder  than  I  deserve;  but  sometimes 
I  've  fancied  that  my  not  saying  anything 
about  myself  had  given  you  the  idea  that  all 
was  not  right  in  my  past.  I  want  to  say 
that  I  came  down  to  Virginia  with  a  clean 
record." 

"  We  never  really  doubted  it,  Bladburn." 

"  If  I  did  n't  write  home,"  he  continued, 
"  it  was  because  I  had  n't  any  home,  neither 
kith  nor  kin.  When  I  said  the  old  folks 
were  dead,  I  said  it.  Am  I  boring  you  ?  If 
I  thought  I  was  "  — 

"  No,  Bladburn.  I  have  often  wanted  you 
to  talk  to  me  about  yourself,  not  from  idle 
curiosity,  I  trust,  but  because  I  liked  you 
that  rainy  night  when  you  came  to  camp, 


QUITE  SO.  211 

and  have  gone  on  liking  you  ever  since. 
This  is  n't  too  much  to  say,  when  Heaven 
only  knows  how  soon  I  may  be  past  saying 
it  or  you  listening  to  it." 

"  That 's  it,"  said  Bladburn,  hurriedly ; 
"  that 's  why  I  want  to  talk  with  you.  I  've 
a  fancy  that  I  sha'  n't  come  out  of  our  first 
battle." 

The  words  gave  me  a  queer  start,  for  I 
had  been  trying  several  days  to  throw  off 
a  similar  presentiment  concerning  him  —  a 
foolish  presentiment  that  grew  out  of  a 
dream. 

"  In  case  anything  of  that  kind  turns  up," 
he  continued,  "  I  'd  like  you  to  have  my 
Latin  grammar  here  —  you  've  seen  me 
reading  it.  You  might  stick  it  away  in  a 
bookcase,  for  the  sake  of  old  times.  It  goes 
against  me  to  think  of  it  falling  into 
rough  hands  or  being  kicked  about  camp  and 
trampled  underfoot." 

He  was  drumming  softly  with  his  fingers 
on  the  volume  in  the  bosom  of  his  blouse. 

"  I  did  n't  intend  to  speak  of  this  to  a  liv 
ing  soul,"  he  went  on,  motioning  me  not  to 
answer  him  ;  "  but  something  took  hold  of 
me  to-night  and  made  me  follow  you  up  here. 
Perhaps  if  I  told  you  all,  you  would  be  the 


212  QUITE  SO. 

more  willing  to  look  after  the  little  book  in 
case  it  goes  ill  with  me.  When  the  war 
broke  out  I  was  teaching  school  down  in 
Maine,  in  the  same  village  where  my  father 
was  schoolmaster  before  me.  The  old  man 
when  he  died  left  me  quite  alone.  I  lived 
pretty  much  by  myself,  having  no  interests 
outside  of  the  district  school,  which  seemed 
in  a  manner  my  personal  property.  Eight 
years  ago  last  spring  a  new  pupil  was 
brought  to  the  school,  a  slight  slip  of  a  girl, 
with  a  sad  kind  of  face  and  quiet  ways. 
Perhaps  it  was  because  she  was  n't  very 
strong,  and  perhaps  because  she  was  n't  used 
over  well  by  those  who  had  charge  of  her, 
or  perhaps  it  was  because  my  life  was  lonely, 
that  my  heart  warmed  to  the  child.  It  all 
seems  like  a  dream  now,  since  that  April 
morning  when  little  Mary  stood  in  front  of 
my  desk  with  her  pretty  eyes  looking  down 
bashfully  and  her  soft  hair  falling  over  her 
face.  One  day  I  look  up,  and  six  years  have 
gone  by  —  as  they  go  by  in  dreams  —  and 
among  the  scholars  is  a  tall  girl  of  sixteen, 
with  serious,  womanly  eyes  which  I  cannot 
trust  myself  to  look  upon.  The  old  life  has 
come  to  an  end.  The  child  has  become  a 
woman  and  can  teach  the  master  now.  So 


QUITE  SO.  213 

help  me  Heaven,  I  did  n't  know  that  I  loved 
her  until  that  day  ! 

"Long  after  the  children  had  gone  home 
I  sat  in  the  school-room  with  my  face  resting 
on  my  hands.  There  was  her  desk,  the  after 
noon  shadows  falling  across  it.  It  never 
looked  empty  and  cheerless  before.  I  went 
and  stood  by  the  low  chair,  as  I  had  stood 
hundreds  of  times.  On  the  desk  was  a  pile 
of  books,  ready  to  be  taken  away,  and  among 
the  rest  a  small  Latin  grammar  which  we 
had  studied  together.  What  little  despairs 
and  triumphs  and  happy  hours  were  associ 
ated  with  it !  I  took  it  up  curiously,  as  if  it 
were  some  gentle  dead  thing,  and  turned 
over  the  pages,  and  could  hardly  see  them. 
Turning  the  pages,  idly  so,  I  came  to  a  leaf 
on  which  something  was  written  with  ink,  in 
the  familiar  girlish  hand.  It  was  only  the 
words  '  Dear  John,'  through  which  she  had 
drawn  two  hasty  pencil  lines  —  I  wish  she 
had  n't  drawn  those  lines !  "  added  Blad- 
burn,  under  his  breath. 

He  was  silent  for  a  minute  or  two,  looking 
off  towards  the  camps,  where  the  lights  were 
fading  out  one  by  one. 

"  I  had  no  right  to  go  and  love  Mary.  I 
was  twice  her  age,  an  awkward,  unsocial 


214  QUITE  SO. 

man,  that  would  have  blighted  her  youth.  I 
was  as  wrong  as  wrong  can  be.  But  I  never 
meant  to  tell  her.  I  locked  the  grammar 
in  my  desk  and  the  secret  in  my  heart  for  a 
year.  I  could  n't  bear  to  meet  her  in  the 
village,  and  kept  away  from  every  place 
where  she  was  likely  to  be.  Then  she  came 
to  me,  and  sat  down  at  my  feet  penitently, 
just  as  she  used  to  do  when  she  was  a  child, 
and  asked  what  she  had  done  to  anger  me ; 
and  then,  Heaven  forgive  me  !  I  told  her  all, 
and  asked  her  if  she  could  say  with  her  lips 
the  words  she  had  written,  and  she  nestled  in 
my  arms  all  a-trembling  like  a  bird,  and 
said  them  over  and  over  again. 

"  When  Mary's  family  heard  of  our  en 
gagement,  there  was  trouble.  They  looked 
higher  for  Mary  than  a  middle-aged  school 
master.  No  blame  to  them.  They  forbade 
me  the  house,  her  uncles  ;  but  we  met  in  the 
village  and  at  the  neighbors'  houses,  and  I 
was  happy,  knowing  she  loved  me.  Matters 
were  in  this  state  when  the  war  came  on. 
I  had  a  strong  call  to  look  after  the  old 
flag,  and  I  hung  my  head  that  day  when  the 
company  raised  in  our  village  marched  by 
the  school-house  to  the  railroad  station ;  but 
I  could  n't  tear  myself  away.  About  this 


QUITE  SO.  215 

time  the  minister's  son,  who  had  been  away 
to  college,  came  to  the  village.  He  met 
Mary  here  and  there,  and  they  became  great 
friends.  He  was  a  likely  fellow,  near  her 
own  age,  and  it  was  natural  they  should  like 
one  another.  Sometimes  I  winced  at  seeing 
him  made  free  of  the  home  from  which  I 
was  shut  out ;  then  I  would  open  the  gram 
mar  at  the  leaf  where  '  Dear  John  '  was 
written  up  in  the  corner,  and  my  trouble 
was  gone.  Mary  was  sorrowful  and  pale 
these  days,  and  I  think  her  people  were  wor 
rying  her. 

"  It  was  one  evening  two  or  three  days 
before  we  got  the  news  of  Bull  Run.  I  had 
gone  down  to  the  burying-ground  to  trim  the 
spruce  hedge  set  round  the  old  man's  lot, 
and  was  just  stepping  into  the  enclosure, 
when  I  heard  voices  from  the  opposite  side. 
One  was  Mary's,  and  the  other  I  knew  to 
be  young  Marston's,  the  minister's  son.  I 
didn't  mean  to  listen,  but  what  Mary  was 
saying  struck  me  dumb.  We  must  never 
meet  again,  she  was  saying  in  a  wild  way. 
We  must  say  good-by  here,  forever,  —  good- 
by,  good-by !  And  I  could  hear  her  sob 
bing.  Then,  presently,  she  said,  hurriedly, 
TVb,  no  ;  my  hand,  not  my  lips  !  Then  it 


216  QUITE  SO. 

seemed  he  kissed  her  hands,  and  the  two 
parted,  one  going  towards  the  parsonage,  and 
the  other  out  by  the  gate  near  where  I 
stood. 

"  I  don't  know  how  long  I  stood  there, 
but  the  night-dews  had  wet  me  to  the  bone 
when  I  stole  out  of  the  graveyard  and  across 
the  road  to  the  school-house.  I  unlocked 
the  door,  and  took  the  Latin  grammar  from 
the  desk  and  hid  it  in  my  bosom.  There 
was  not  a  sound  or  a  light  anywhere  as  I 
walked  out  of  the  village.  And  now,"  said 
Bladburn,  rising  suddenly  from  the  tree- 
trunk,  "  if  the  little  book  ever  falls  in  your 
way,  won't  you  see  that  it  comes  to  no  harm, 
for  my  sake,  and  for  the  sake  of  the  little 
woman  who  was  true  to  me  and  did  n't  love 
me?  Wherever  she  is  to-night,  God  bless 
her!" 

As  we  descended  to  camp  with  our  arms 
resting  on  each  other's  shoulder,  the  watch- 
fires  were  burning  low  in  the  valleys  and 
along  the  hillsides,  and  as  far  as  the  eye 
could  reach  the  silent  tents  lay  bleaching  in 
the  moonlight. 


QUITE  SO.  217 


III. 

WE  imagined  that  the  throwing  forward 
of  our  brigade  was  the  initial  movement  of  a 
general  advance  of  the  army ;  but  that,  as 
the  reader  will  remember,  did  not  take  place 
until  the  following  March.  The  Confeder 
ates  had  fallen  back  to  Centreville  without 
firing  a  shot,  and  the  national  troops  were  in 
possession  of  Lewinsville,  Vienna,  and  Fair 
fax  Court-House.  Our  new  position  was 
nearly  identical  with  that  which  we  had  occu 
pied  on  the  night  previous  to  the  battle  of 
Bull  Run  —  on  the  old  turnpike  road  to 
Manassas,  where  the  enemy  was  supposed  to 
be  in  great  force.  With  a  field-glass  we 
could  see  the  Rebel  pickets  moving  in  a  belt 
of  woodland  on  our  right,  and  morning  and 
evening  we  heard  the  spiteful  roll  of  their 
snare-drums. 

Those  pickets  soon  became  a  nuisance  to 
us.  Hardly  a  night  passed  but  they  fired 
upon  our  outposts,  so  far  with  no  harmful 
result;  but  after  a  while  it  grew  to  be  a 


218  QUITE  SO. 

serious  matter.  The  Rebels  would  crawl  out 
on  all-fours  from  the  wood  into  a  field  cov 
ered  with  underbrush,  and  lie  there  in  the 
dark  for  hours,  waiting  for  a  shot.  Then 
our  men  took  to  the  rifle-pits  —  pits  ten  or 
twelve  feet  long  by  four  or  five  deep,  with 
the  loose  earth  banked  up  a  few  inches  high 
on  the  exposed  sides.  All  the  pits  bore 
names,  more  or  less  felicitous,  by  which  they 
were  known  to  their  transient  tenants.  One 
was  called  "  The  Pepper-Box,"  another  "  Un 
cle  Sam's  Well,"  another  "  The  Reb-Trap," 
and  another,  I  am  constrained  to  say,  was 
named  after  a  not-to-be-mentioned  tropical 
locality.  Though  this  rude  sort  of  nomen 
clature  predominated,  there  was  no  lack  of 
softer  titles,  such  as  "  Fortress  Matilda  "  and 
"  Castle  Mary,"  and  one  had,  though  unin 
tentionally,  a  literary  flavor  to  it,  "  Blair's 
Grave,"  which  was  not  popularly  considered 
as  reflecting  unpleasantly  on  Nat  Blair,  who 
had  assisted  in  making  the  excavation. 

Some  of  the  regiment  had  discovered  a 
field  of  late  corn  in  the  neighborhood,  and 
used  to  boil  a  few  ears  every  day,  while  it 
lasted,  for  the  boys  detailed  on  the  night- 
picket.  The  corn-cobs  were  always  scrupu 
lously  preserved  and  mounted  on  the  para- 


QUITE  SO.  219 

pets  of  the  pits.  Whenever  a  Rebel  shot 
carried  away  one  of  these  barbette  guns, 
there  was  swearing  in  that  particular  trench. 
Strong,  who  was  very  sensitive  to  this  kind 
of  disaster,  was  complaining  bitterly  one 
morning,  because  he  had  lost  three  "  pieces  " 
the  night  before. 

"  There 's  Quite  So,  now,"  said  Strong, 
"  when  a  Minie-ball  comes  ping  !  and  knocks 
one  of  his  guns  to  flinders,  he  merely  smiles, 
and  does  n't  at  all  see  the  degradation  of  the 
thing." 

Poor  Bladburn !  As  I  watched  him  day 
by  day  going  about  his  duties,  in  his  shy, 
cheery  way,  with  a  smile  for  every  one  and 
not  an  extra  word  for  anybody,  it  was  hard 
to  believe  he  was  the  same  man  who,  that 
night  before  we  broke  camp  by  the  Poto 
mac,  had  poured  out  to  me  the  story  of  his 
love  and  sorrow  in  words  that  burned  in  my 
memory. 

While  Strong  was  speaking,  Blakely 
lifted  aside  the  flap  of  the  tent  and  looked 
in  on  us. 

"  Boys,  Quite  So  was  hurt  last  night,"  he 
said,  with  a  white  tremor  to  his  lip. 

"  What !  " 

"  Shot  on  picket." 


220  QUITE  SO. 

"  Why,  he  was  in  the  pit  next  to  mine/' 
cried  Strong. 

"  Badly  hurt?" 

"  Badly  hurt." 

I  knew  he  was  ;  I  need  not  have  asked  the 
question.  He  never  meant  to  go  back  to 
New  England ! 

Bladburn  was  lying  on  the  stretcher  in 
the  hospital-tent.  The  surgeon  had  knelt 
down  by  him,  and  was  carefully  cutting 
away  the  bosom  of  his  blouse.  The  Latin 
grammar,  stained  and  torn,  slipped,  and  fell 
to  the  floor.  Bladburn  gave  me  a  quick 
glance.  I  picked  up  the  book,  and  as  I 
placed  it  in  his  hand,  the  icy  fingers  closed 
softly  over  mine.  He  was  sinking  fast.  In 
a  few  minutes  the  surgeon  finished  his  ex 
amination.  When  he  rose  to  his  feet  there 
were  tears  on  the  weather-beaten  cheeks. 
He  was  a  rough  outside,  but  a  tender  heart. 

"  My  poor  lad,"  he  blurted  out,  "  it 's  no 
use.  If  you  've  anything  to  say,  say  it  now, 
for  you  've  nearly  done  with  this  world." 

Then  Bladburn  lifted  his  eyes  slowly  to 
the  surgeon,  and  the  old  smile  flitted  over 
his  face  as  he  murmured, 

"  Quite  so." 


A  RIVERMOUTH  ROMANCE. 


AT  five  o'clock  on  the  morning  of  the 
tenth  of  July,  1860,  the  front  door  of  a  cer 
tain  house  on  Anchor  Street,  in  the  ancient 
seaport  town  of  Rivermouth,  might  have 
been  observed  to  open  with  great  caution. 
This  door,  as  the  least  imaginative  reader 
may  easily  conjecture,  did  not  open  itself. 
It  was  opened  by  Miss  Margaret  Callaghan, 
who  immediately  closed  it  softly  behind  her, 
paused  for  a  few  seconds  with  an  embar 
rassed  air  on  the  stone  step,  and  then,  throw 
ing  a  furtive  glance  up  at  the  second-story 
windows,  passed  hastily  down  the  street  to 
wards  the  river,  keeping  close  to  the  fences 
and  garden  walls  on  her  left. 

There  was  a  ghost-like  stealthiness  to  Miss 
Margaret's  movements,  though  there  was 
nothing  whatever  of  the  ghost  about  Miss 
Margaret  herself.  She  was  a  plump,  short 
person,  no  longer  young,  with  coal-black  hair 


222  A  RIVERMOUTH  ROMANCE. 

growing  low  on  the  forehead,  and  a  round 
face  that  would  have  been  nearly  meaningless 
if  the  features  had  not  been  emphasized  — 
italicized,  so  to  speak  —  by  the  small-pox. 
Moreover,  the  brilliancy  of  her  toilet  would 
have  rendered  any  ghostly  hypothesis  unten 
able.  Mrs.  Solomon  (we  refer  to  the  dressi 
est  Mrs.  Solomon,  whichever  one  that  was) 
in  all  her  glory  was  not  arrayed  like  Miss 
Margaret  on  that  eventful  summer  morning. 
She  wore  a  light-green,  shot-silk  frock,  a 
blazing  red  shawl,  and  a  yellow  crape  bonnet 
profusely  decorated  with  azure,  orange,  and 
magenta  artificial  flowers.  In  her  hand  she 
carried  a  white  parasol.  The  newly  risen 
sun,  ricocheting  from  the  bosom  of  the  river 
and  striking  point  blank  on  the  top -knot  of 
Miss  Margaret's  gorgeousness,  made  her  an 
imposing  spectacle  in  the  quiet  street  of  that 
Puritan  village.  But,  in  spite  of  the  bravery 
of  her  apparel,  she  stole  guiltily  along  by 
garden  walls  and  fences  until  she  reached  a 
small,  dingy  frame-house  near  the  wharves, 
in  the  darkened  doorway  of  which  she 
quenched  her  burning  splendor,  if  so  bold  a 
figure  is  permissible. 

Three  quarters  of  an  hour  passed.     The 
sunshine  moved  slowly  up  Anchor  Street,  fin- 


A  RIVERMOUTH  ROMANCE.  223 

gered  noiselessly  the  well-kept  brass  knock 
ers  on  either  side,  and  drained  the  heeltaps 
of  dew  which  had  been  left  from  the  revels 
of  the  fairies  overnight  in  the  cups  of  the 
morning-glories.  Not  a  soul  was  stirring 
yet  in  this  part  of  the  town,  though  the 
Rivermouthians  are  such  early  birds  that 
not  a  worm  may  be  said  to  escape  them. 
By  and  by  one  of  the  brown  Holland  shades 
at  one  of  the  upper  windows  of  the  Bilkins 
mansion  —  the  house  from  which  Miss  Mar 
garet  had  emerged  —  was  drawn  up,  and 
old  Mr.  Bilkins  in  spiral  nightcap  looked 
out  on  the  sunny  street.  Not  a  living  crea 
ture  was  to  be  seen,  save  the  dissipated  fam 
ily  cat  —  a  very  Lovelace  of  a  cat  that  was 
not  allowed  a  night-key  —  who  was  sitting 
on  the  curbstone  opposite,  waiting  for  the 
hall  door  to  be  opened.  Three  quarters  of 
an  hour,  we  repeat,  had  passed,  when  Mrs. 
Margaret  O'Rourke,  nSe  Callaghan,  issued 
from  the  small,  dingy  house  by  the  river, 
and  regained  the  door-step  of  the  Bilkins 
mansion  in  the  same  stealthy  fashion  in 
which  she  had  left  it. 

Not  to  prolong  a  mystery  that  must  al 
ready  oppress  the  reader,  Mr.  Bilkins's  cook 
had,  after  the  manner  of  her  kind,  stolen 


224  A  R1VERMOUTH  ROMANCE. 

out  of  the  premises  before  the  family  were 
up,  and  got  herself  married  —  surreptitious 
ly  and  artfully  married,  as  if  matrimony 
were  an  indictable  offence. 

And  something  of  an  offence  it  was  in 
this  instance.  In  the  first  place  Margaret 
Callaghan  had  lived  nearly  twenty  years 
with  the  Bilkins  family,  and  the  old  people 
—  there  were  no  children  now  —  had  re 
warded  this  long  service  by  taking  Marga 
ret  into  their  affections.  It  was  a  piece  of 
subtile  ingratitude  for  her  to  marry  without 
admitting  the  worthy  couple  to  her  confi 
dence.  In  the  next  place,  Margaret  had 
married  a  man  some  eighteen  years  younger 
than  herself.  That  was  the  young  man's 
lookout,  you  say.  We  hold  it  was  Margaret 
that  was  to  blame.  What  does  a  young 
blade  of  twenty-two  know?  Not  half  so 
much  as  he  thinks  he  does.  His  exhaust- 
less  ignorance  at  that  age  is  a  discovery 
which  is  left  for  him  to  make  in  his  prime. 

"  Curly  gold  locks  cover  foolish  brains, 

Billing  and  cooing  is  all  your  cheer  ; 
Sighing  and  singing  of  midnight  strains, 
Under  Bonnybell's  window  panes,  — 
Wait  till  you  come  to  Forty  Year !  " 

In   one   sense    Margaret's   husband   had 


A  RIVERMOUTH  ROMANCE.  225 

come  to  forty  year  —  she  was  forty  to  a 
day. 

Mrs.  Margaret  O'Rourke,  with  the  bad- 
dish  cat  following  closely  at  her  heels,  en 
tered  the  Bilkins  mansion,  reached  her 
chamber  in  the  attic  without  being  inter 
cepted,  and  there  laid  aside  her  finery.  Two 
or  three  times,  while  arranging  her  more 
humble  attire,  she  paused  to  take  a  look  at 
the  marriage  certificate,  which  she  had  de 
posited  between  the  leaves  of  her  Prayer- 
Book,  and  on  each  occasion  held  that  potent 
document  upside  down ;  for  Margaret's  lit 
erary  culture  was  of  the  severest  order,  and 
excluded  the  art  of  reading. 

The  breakfast  was  late  that  morning.  As 
Mrs.  O'Rourke  set  the  coffee-urn  in  front  of 
Mrs.  Bilkins  and  flanked  Mr.  Bilkins  with 
the  broiled  mackerel  and  buttered  toast, 
Mrs.  O'Rourke's  conscience  smote  her.  She 
afterwards  declared  that  when  she  saw  the 
two  sitting  there  so  innocent-like,  not  dream 
ing  of  the  comether  she  had  put  upon  them, 
she  secretly  and  unbeknownt  let  a  few  tears 
fall  into  the  cream-pitcher.  Whether  or 
not  it  was  this  material  expression  of  Mar 
garet's  penitence  that  spoiled  the  coffee  does 
not  admit  of  inquiry;  but  the  coffee  was 


226  A  R1VERMOUTH  ROMANCE. 

bad.      In  fact,  the  whole   breakfast  was  a 
comedy  of  errors. 

It  was  a  blessed  relief  to  Margaret  when 
the  meal  was  ended.  She  retired  in  a  cold 
perspiration  to  the  penetralia  of  the  kitchen, 
and  it  was  remarked  by  both  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Bilkins  that  those  short  flights  of  vocalism  — 
apropos  of  the  personal  charms  of  one  Kate 
Kearney  who  lived  on  the  banks  of  Killarney 
—  which  ordinarily  issued  from  the  direction 
of  the  scullery  were  unheard  that  forenoon. 

The  town  clock  was  striking  eleven,  and 
the  antiquated  timepiece  on  the  staircase 
(which  never  spoke  but  it  dropped  pearls 
and  crystals,  like  the  fairy  in  the  story)  was 
lisping  the  hour,  when  there  came  three  tre 
mendous  knocks  at  the  street  door.  Mrs. 
Bilkins,  who  was  dusting  the  brass-mounted 
chronometer  in  the  hall,  stood  transfixed, 
with  arm  uplifted.  The  admirable  old  lady 
had  for  years  been  carrying  on  a  guerilla 
warfare  with  itinerant  venders  of  furniture 
polish,  and  pain-killer,  and  crockery  cement, 
and  the  like.  The  effrontery  of  the  triple 
knock  convinced  her  the  enemy  was  at  her 
gates  —  possibly  that  dissolute  creature  with 
twenty-four  sheets  of  note-paper  and  twenty- 
four  envelopes  for  fifteen  cents. 


A  RIVERMOUTH  ROMANCE.  227 

Mrs.  Bilkins  swept  across  the  hall,  and 
opened  the  door  with  a  jerk.  The  sudden 
ness  of  the  movement  was  apparently  not 
anticipated  by  the  person  outside,  who,  with 
one  arm  stretched  feebly  towards  the  re 
ceding  knocker,  tilted  gently  forward,  and 
rested  both  hands  on  the  threshold  in  an 
attitude  which  was  probably  common  enough 
with  our  ancestors  of  the  Simian  period,  but 
could  never  have  been  considered  graceful. 
By  an  effort  that  testified  to  the  excellent 
condition  of  his  muscles,  the  person  instantly 
righted  himself,  and  stood  swaying  unstead 
ily  on  his  toes  and  heels,  and  smiling  rather 
vaguely  on  Mrs.  Bilkins. 

It  was  a  slightly-built  but  well-knitted 
young  fellow,  in  the  not  unpicturesque  garb 
of  our  marine  service.  His  woollen  cap, 
pitched  forward  at  an  acute  angle  with  his 
nose,  showed  the  back  part  of  a  head 
thatched  with  short  yellow  hair,  which  had 
broken  into  innumerable  curls  of  painful 
tightness.  On  his  ruddy  cheeks  a  sparse 
sandy  beard  was  making  a  timid  debut. 
Add  to  this  a  weak,  good-natured  mouth,  a 
pair  of  devil-may-care  blue  eyes,  and  the  fact 
that  the  man  was  very  drunk,  and  you  have 
a  pre-Raphaelite  portrait  —  we  may  as  well 


228  A  RIVERMOUTH  ROMANCE. 

say  it  at  once  —  of  Mr.  Larry  O'Rourke  of 
Mullingar,  County  Westmeath,  and  late  of 
the  United  States  sloop-of-war  Santee. 

The  man  was  a  total  stranger  to  Mrs. 
Bilkins ;  but  the  instant  she  caught  sight 
of  the  double  white  anchors  embroidered  on 
the  lapels  of  his  jacket,  she  unhesitatingly 
threw  back  the  door,  which  with  great  pres 
ence  of  mind  she  had  partly  closed. 

A  drunken  sailor  standing  on  the  step  of 
the  Bilkins  mansion  was  no  novelty.  The 
street,  as  we  have  stated,  led  down  to  the 
wharves,  and  sailors  were  constantly  passing. 
The  house  abutted  directly  on  the  street ;  the 
granite  door-step  was  almost  flush  with  the 
sidewalk,  and  the  huge  old-fashioned  brass 
knocker  —  seemingly  a  brazen  hand  that 
had  been  cut  off  at  the  wrist,  and  nailed 
against  the  oak  as  a  warning  to  malefactors 
—  extended  itself  in  a  kind  of  grim  appeal 
to  everybody.  It  seemed  to  possess  strange 
fascinations  for  all  seafaring  folk ;  and  when 
there  was  a  man-of-war  in  port  the  rat-tat- 
tat  of  that  knocker  would  frequently  startle 
the  quiet  neighborhood  long  after  midnight. 
There  appeared  to  be  an  occult  understand 
ing  between  it  and  the  blue-jackets.  Years 
ago  there  was  a  young  Bilkins,  one  Pendex- 


A  RIVERMOUTH  ROMANCE.  229 

ter  Bilkins  —  a  sad  losel,  we  fear  —  who  ran 
away  to  try  his  fortunes  before  the  mast, 
and  fell  overboard  in  a  gale  off  Hatteras. 
"  Lost  at  sea,"  says  the  chubby  marble  slab 
in  the  Old  South  Burying-Ground,  "  cetat 
18."  Perhaps  that  is  why  no  blue-jacket, 
sober  or  drunk,  was  ever  repulsed  from  the 
door  of  the  Bilkins  mansion. 

Of  course  Mrs.  Bilkins  had  her  taste  in 
the  matter,  and  preferred  them  sober.  But 
as  this  could  not  always  be,  she  tempered 
her  wind,  so  to  speak,  to  the  shorn  lamb. 
The  flushed,  prematurely  old  face  that  now 
looked  up  at  her  moved  the  good  lady's  pity. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  "  she  asked  kindly. 

"  Me  wife." 

"  There  's  no  wife  for  you  here,"  said 
Mrs.  Bilkins,  somewhat  taken  aback.  "  His 
wife !  "  she  thought ;  "  it  's  a  mother  the 
poor  boy  stands  in  need  of." 

"  Me  wife,"  repeated  Mr.  O'Eourke,  "  for 
betther  or  for  worse." 

"  You  had  better  go  away,"  said  Mrs. 
Bilkins,  bridling  up,  "  or  it  will  be  the 
worse  for  you." 

"  To  have  and  to  howld,"  continued  Mr. 
O'Rourke,  wandering  retrospectively  in  the 
mazes  of  the  marriage  service,  "  to  have  and 


230  A  RIVERMOUTH  ROMANCE. 

to  howld,  till  death  —  bad  luck  to  him  !  — 
takes  one  or  the  ither  of  us." 

"You  're  a  blasphemous  creature,"  said 
Mrs.  Bilkins,  severely. 

"  Thim  's  the  words  his  riverince  spake 
this  mornin',  standin'  foreninst  us,"  ex 
plained  Mr.  O'Rourke.  "  I  stood  here,  see, 
and  me  jew'l  stood  there,  and  the  howly 
chaplain  beyont." 

And  Mr.  O'Rourke  with  a  wavering  fore 
finger  drew  a  diagram  of  the  interesting 
situation  on  the  door-step. 

"  Well,"  returned  Mrs.  Bilkins,  "  if  you're 
a  married  man,  all  I  have  to  say  is,  there  's 
a  pair  of  fools  instead  of  one.  You  had 
better  be  off ;  the  person  you  want  does  n't 
live  here." 

"  Bedad,  thin,  but  she  does." 

"  Lives  here  ?  " 

"  Sorra  a  place  else." 

"  The  man 's  crazy,"  said  Mrs.  Bilkins  to 
herself. 

While  she  thought  him  simply  drunk  she 
was  not  in  the  least  afraid;  but  the  idea 
that  she  was  conversing  with  a  madman  sent 
a  chill  over  her.  She  reached  back  her  hand 
preparatory  to  shutting  the  door,  when  Mr. 
O'Rourke,  with  an  agility  that  might  have 


A  RIVERMOUTH  ROMANCE.  231 

been  expected  from  his  previous  gymnastics, 
set  one  foot  on  the  threshold  and  frustrated 
the  design. 

"  I  want  me  wife,"  he  said  sternly. 

Unfortunately,  Mr.  Bilkins  had  gone  up 
town,  and  there  was  no  one  in  the  house  ex 
cept  Margaret,  whose  pluck  was  not  to  be 
depended  on.  The  case  was  urgent.  With 
the  energy  of  despair  Mrs.  Bilkins  suddenly 
placed  the  toe  of  her  boot  against  Mr. 
O'Rourke's  invading  foot,  and  pushed  it 
away.  The  effect  of  this  attack  was  to  cause 
Mr.  O'Rourke  to  describe  a  complete  circle 
on  one  leg,  and  then  sit  down  heavily  on  the 
threshold.  The  lady  retreated  to  the  hat- 
stand,  and  rested  her  hand  mechanically  on 
the  handle  of  a  blue  cotton  umbrella.  Mr. 
O'Rourke  partly  turned  his  head  and  smiled 
upon  her  with  conscious  superiority.  At 
this  juncture  a  third  actor  appeared  on  the 
scene,  evidently  a  friend  of  Mr.  O'Rourke, 
for  he  addressed  that  gentleman  as  "  a  spal 
peen,"  and  told  him  to  go  home. 

"  Divil  an  inch,"  replied  the  spalpeen ; 
but  he  got  himself  off  the  threshold,  and  re 
sumed  his  position  on  the  step. 

"  It 's  only  Larry,  mum,"  said  the  man, 
touching  his  forelock  politely  ;  "  as  dacent  a 


232  A  RIVERMOUTH  ROMANCE. 

lad  as  iver  lived,  when  lie  's  not  in  liquor ; 
an'  I  've  known  him  to  be  sober  for  days  to- 
gither,"  he  added,  reflectively.  "He  don't 
mane  a  ha'p'orth  o'  harum,  but  jist  now  he  's 
not  quite  in  his  right  moind." 

"  I  should  think  not,"  said  Mrs.  Bilkins, 
turning  from  the  speaker  to  Mr.  O'Rourke, 
who  had  seated  himself  gravely  on  the 
scraper,  and  was  weeping.  "  Has  n't  the 
man  any  friends?  " 

"  Too  many  of  'em,  mum,  an'  it 's  along 
wid  dhrinkin'  toasts  wid  'em  that  Larry  got 
thro  wed.  The  punch  that  spalpeen  has 
dhrunk  this  day  would  amaze  ye.  He  give 
us  the  slip  awhiles  ago,  bad  'cess  to  him,  an' 
come  up  here.  Did  n't  I  tell  ye,  Larry,  not 
to  be  afther  ringin'  at  the  owld  gintleman's 
knocker  ?  Ain't  ye  got  no  sinse  at  all  ?  " 

"  Misther  Donnehugh,"  responded  Mr. 
O'Rourke  with  great  dignity,  "  ye  're  dhrunk 
agin." 

Mr.  Donnehugh,  who  had  not  taken  more 
than  thirteen  ladles  of  rum-punch,  disdained 
to  reply  directly. 

"He's  a  dacent  lad  enough" — this  to 
Mrs.  Bilkins  — "  but  his  head  is  wake. 
Whin  he  's  had  two  sups  o'  whiskey  he  be- 
laves  he's  dhrunk  a  bar'l  full.  A  gill  o' 


A  RIVERMOUTH  ROMANCE.  233 

wather  out  of  a  jimmy-john  'd  fuddle  him, 
mum." 

"  Is  n't  there  anybody  to  look  after  him  ?  " 

"  No,  mum,  he 's  an  orphan  ;  his  father 
and  mother  live  in  the  owld  counthry,  an'  a 
fine  hale  owld  couple  they  are." 

"  Has  n't  he  any  family  in  the  town  "  — 

"  Sure,  mum,  he  has  a  family ;  was  n't  he 
married  this  blessed  mornin'  ?  " 

"  He  said  so." 

"  Indade,  thin,  he  was  —  the  pore  divil !  " 

"And  the  —  the  person ? "  inquired  Mrs. 
Bilkins. 

"  Is  it  the  wife,  ye  mane  ?  " 

"  Yes,  the  wife  :  where  is  she  ?  " 

"  Well,  thin,  mum,"  said  Mr.  Donnehugh, 
"  it 's  yerself  can  answer  that." 

"I?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bilkins.  "Good 
heavens  !  this  man  's  as  crazy  as  the  other !  " 

"  Begorra,  if  anybody 's  crazy,  it 's  Larry, 
for  it's  Larry  has  married  Margaret." 

"  What  Margaret  ?  "  cried  Mrs.  Bilkins, 
with  a  start. 

"Margaret  Callaghan,  sure." 

"  Our  Margaret?  Do  you  mean  to  say 
that  OUE  Margaret  has  married  that  —  that 
good-for-nothing,  inebriated  wretch !  " 

"  It 's  a  civil  tongue  the  owld  lady  has, 


234  A  RIVERMOUTH  ROMANCE. 

any  way,"  remarked  Mr.  O'Rourke,  criti 
cally,  from  the  scraper. 

Mrs.  Bilkins's  voice  during  the  latter  part 
of  the  colloquy  had  been  pitched  in  a  high 
key  ;  it  rung  through  the  hall  and  penetrated 
to  the  kitchen,  where  Margaret  was  thought 
fully  wiping  the  breakfast  things.  She 
paused  with  a  half-dried  saucer  in  her  hand, 
and  listened.  In  a  moment  more  she  stood, 
with  bloodless  face  and  limp  figure,  leaning 
against  the  banister,  behind  Mrs.  Bilkins. 

"  Is  it  there  ye  are,  me  jew'l !  "  cried  Mr. 
O'Rourke,  discovering  her. 

Mrs.  Bilkins  wheeled  upon  Margaret. 

"  Margaret  Callaghan,  is  that  thing  your 
husband  ?  " 

"Ye-yes,  mum,"  faltered  Mrs.  O'Rourke, 
with  a  wof  ul  lack  of  spirit. 

"  Then  take  it  away!  "  cried  Mrs.  Bilkins. 

Margaret,  with  a  slight  flush  on  either 
cheek,  glided  past  Mrs.  Bilkins,  and  the 
heavy  oak  door  closed  with  a  bang,  as  the 
gates  of  Paradise  must  have  closed  of  old 
upon  Adam  and  Eve. 

"  Come ! "  said  Margaret,  taking  Mr. 
O'Rourke  by  the  hand ;  and  the  two  wan 
dered  forth  upon  their  wedding  journey  down 
Anchor  Street,  with  all  the  world  before 


A  RIVERMOUTH  ROMANCE.  235 

them  where  to  choose.  They  chose  to  halt 
at  the  small,  shabby  tenement-house  by  the 
river,  through  the  doorway  of  which  the  bri 
dal  pair  disappeared  with  a  reeling,  eccen 
tric  gait;  for  Mr.  O'Rourke's  intoxication 
seemed  to  have  run  down  his  elbow,  and 
communicated  itself  to  Margaret. 

O  Hymen !  who  burnest  precious  gums 
and  scented  woods  in  thy  torch  at  the  melt 
ing  of  aristocratic  hearts,  with  what  a  pitiful 
penny-dip  thou  hast  lighted  up  our  little 
back-street  romance! 


n. 

IT  had  been  no  part  of  Margaret's  plan  to 
acknowledge  the  marriage  so  soon.  Though 
on  pleasure  bent,  she  had  a  frugal  mind. 
She  had  invested  in  a  husband  with  a  view 
of  laying  him  away  for  a  rainy  day  —  that 
is  to  say,  for  such  time  as  her  master  and 
mistress  should  cease  to  need  her  services ; 
for  she  had  promised  on  more  than  one  occa 
sion  to  remain  with  the  old  people  as  long  as 
they  lived.  Indeed,  if  Mr.  O'Rourke  had 
come  to  her  and  said  in  so  many  words, 
"  The  day  you  marry  me  you  must  leave  the 
Bilkins  family,"  there  is  very  little  doubt 
but  Margaret  would  have  let  that  young  sea- 
monster  slip  back  unmated,  so  far  as  she 
was  concerned,  into  his  native  element.  The 
contingency  never  entered  into  her  calcula 
tions.  She  intended  that  the  ship  which 
had  brought  Ulysses  to  her  island  should 
take  him  off  again  after  a  decent  interval  of 
honeymoon;  then  she  would  confess  all  to 
Mrs.  Bilkins,  and  be  forgiven,  and  Mr.  Bil 
kins  would  not  cancel  that  clause  supposed 


A  RIVERMOUTH  ROMANCE.  237 

to  exist  in  his  will  bequeathing  two  first- 
mortgage  bonds  of  the  Squedunk  R.  R.  Co. 
to  a  certain  faithful  servant.  In  the  mean 
while  she  would  add  each  month  to  her  store 
in  the  coffers  of  the  Rivermouth  Savings 
Bank ;  for  Calypso  had  a  neat  sum  to  her 
credit  on  the  books  of  that  provident  insti 
tution. 

But  this  could  not  be  now.  The  volatile 
bridegroom  had  upset  the  wisely  conceived 
plan,  and  "all  the  fat  was  in  the  fire," 
as  Margaret  philosophically  put  it.  Mr. 
O'Rourke  had  been  fully  instructed  in  the 
part  he  was  to  play,  and,  to  do  him  justice, 
had  honestly  intended  to  play  it ;  but  des 
tiny  was  against  him.  It  may  be  observed 
that  destiny  and  Mr.  O'Rourke  were  not  on 
very  friendly  terms. 

After  the  ceremony  had  been  performed 
and  Margaret  had  stolen  back  to  the  Bilkins 
mansion,  as  related,  Mr.  O'Rourke  with  his 
own  skilful  hands  had  brewed  a  noble  punch 
for  the  wedding  guests.  Standing  at  the 
head  of*  the  table  and  stirring  the  pungent 
mixture  in  a  small  wash-tub  purchased  for 
the  occasion,  Mr.  O'Rourke  came  out  in  full 
flower.  His  flow  of  wit,  as  he  replenished 
the  glasses,  was  as  racy  and  seemingly  as 


238  A  RIVERMOUTH  ROMANCE. 

inexhaustible  as  the  punch  itself.  When 
Mrs.  McLaughlin  held  out  her  glass,  inad 
vertently  upside  down,  for  her  sixth  ladlef  ul, 
Mr.  O'Rourke  gallantly  declared  it  should 
be  filled  if  he  had  to  stand  on  his  head  to  do 
it.  The  elder  Miss  O'Leary  whispered  to 
Mrs.  Connally  that  Mr.  O'Rourke  was  "  a 
perfic  gintleman,"  and  the  men  in  a  body 
pronounced  him  a  bit  of  the  raal  shamrock. 
If  Mr.  O'Rourke  was  happy  in  brewing  a 
punch,  he  was  happier  in  dispensing  it,  and 
happiest  of  all  in  drinking  a  great  deal  of 
it  himself.  He  toasted  Mrs.  Finnigan,  the 
landlady,  and  the  late  lamented  Finnigan, 
the  father,  whom  he  had  never  seen,  and 
Miss  Biddy  Finnigan,  the  daughter,  and  a 
young  toddling  Finnigan,  who  was  at  large 
in  shockingly  scant  raiment.  He  drank  to 
the  company  individually  and  collectively, 
drank  to  the  absent,  drank  to  a  tin-peddler 
who  chanced  to  pass  the  window,  and  indeed 
was  in  that  propitiatory  mood  when  he  would 
have  drunk  to  the  health  of  each  separate 
animal  that  came  out  of  the  Ark.  *  It  was 
in  the  midst  of  the  confusion  and  applause 
which  followed  his  song,  "  The  Wearing  of 
the  Grane,"  that  Mr.  O'Rourke,  the  punch 
being  all  gone,  withdrew  unobserved,  and 


A  RIVERMOUTH  ROMANCE.  239 

went  in  quest  of  Mrs.  O'Rourke  — with  what 
success  the  reader  knows. 


According  to  the  love-idyl  of  the  period, 
when  Laura  and  Charles  Henry,  after  un 
heard-of  obstacles,  are  finally  united,  all 
cares  and  tribulations  and  responsibilities 
slip  from  their  sleek  backs  like  Christian's 
burden.  The  idea  is  a  pretty  one,  theoret 
ically,  but,  like  some  of  those  models  in  the 
Patent  Office  at  Washington,  it  fails  to 
work.  Charles  Henry  does  not  go  on  sit 
ting  at  Laura's  feet  and  reading  Tennyson 
to  her  forever :  the  rent  of  the  cottage  by 
the  sea  falls  due  with  prosaic  regularity ; 
there  are  bakers,  and  butchers,  and  babies, 
and  tax-collectors,  and  doctors,  and  under 
takers,  and  sometimes  gentlemen  of  the  jury, 
to  be  attended  to.  Wedded  life  is  not  one 
long  amatory  poem  with  recurrent  rhymes 
of  love  and  dove,  and  kiss  and  bliss.  Yet 
when  the  average  sentimental  novelist  has 
supplied  his  hero  and  heroine  with  their 
bridal  outfit  and  arranged  that  little  mat 
ter  of  the  marriage  certificate,  he  usually 
turns  off  the  gas,  puts  up  his  shutters,  and 
saunters  off  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
as  if  the  day's  business  were  over.  But  we, 


240  A  RIVERMOUTH  ROMANCE. 

who  are  honest  dealers  in  real  life  and  dis 
dain  to  give  short  weight,  know  better.  The 
business  is  by  no  means  over ;  it  is  just  be 
gun.  It  is  not  Christian  throwing  off  his 
pack  for  good  and  all,  but  Christian  taking 
up  a  load  heavier  and  more  difficult  than 
any  he  has  carried. 

If  Margaret  Callaghan,  when  she  medi 
tated  matrimony,  indulged  in  any  roseate 
dreams,  they  were  quickly  put  to  flight. 
She  suddenly  found  herself  dispossessed  of 
a  quiet,  comfortable  home,  and  face  to  face 
with  the  fact  that  she  had  a  white  elephant 
on  her  hands.  It  is  not  likely  that  Mr. 
O'Rourke  assumed  precisely  the  shape  of  a 
white  elephant  to  her  mental  vision  ;  but  he 
was  as  useless  and  cumbersome  and  unman 
ageable  as  one. 

Margaret  and  Larry's  wedding  tour  did 
not  extend  beyond  Mrs.  Finnigan's  estab 
lishment,  where  they  took  two  or  three 
rooms  and  set  up  housekeeping  in  a  humble 
way.  Margaret,  who  was  a  tidy  housewife, 
kept  the  floor  of  her  apartments  as  white  as 
your  hand,  the  tin  plates  on  the  dresser  as 
bright  as  your  lady-love's  eyes,  and  the  cook 
ing-stove  as  neat  as  the  machinery  on  a 
Sound  steamer.  When  she  was  not  rubbing 


A  R1VERMODTH  ROMANCE.  241 

the  stove  with  lamp-black  she  was  cooking 
upon  it  some  savory  dish  to  tempt  the  pal 
ate  of  her  marine  monster.  Naturally  of  a 
hopeful  temperament,  she  went  about  her 
work  singing  softly  to  herself  at  times,  and 
would  have  been  very  happy  that  first  week 
if  ?aV.  O'Rourke  had  known  a  sober  mo- 
mej™  But  Mr.  O'Rourke  showed  an  exas- 
peavvng  disposition  to  keep  up  festivities. 
Air"ihe  end  of  ten  days,  however,  he  toned 
d'n/n,  and  at  Margaret's  suggestion  that  he 
P°/l  better  be  looking  about  for  some  employ- 
%nt  he  rigged  up  a  fishing-pole,  and  set  out 
with  an  injured  air  for  the  wharf  at  the  foot 
of  the  street,  where  he  fished  for  the  rest  of 
the  day.  To  sit  for  hours  blinking  in  the 
sun,  waiting  for  a  cunner  to  come  along  and 
take  his  hook,  was  as  exhaustive  a  kind  of 
labor  as  he  cared  to  engage  in.  Though 
Mr.  O'Rourke  had  recently  returned  from 
a  long  cruise,  he  had  not  a  cent  to  show. 
During  his  first  three  days  ashore  he  had 
dissipated  his  three  years'  pay.  The  house 
keeping  expenses  began  eating  a  hole  in 
Margaret's  little  fund,  the  existence  of  which 
was  no  sooner  known  to  Mr.  O'Rourke  than 
he  stood  up  his  fishing-rod  in  one  corner  of 
the  room,  and  thenceforth  it  caught  nothing 
but  cobwebs. 


242  A  RIVERMOUTH  ROMANCE. 

"  Divil  a  sthroke  o'  work  I  '11  do,"  said 
Mr.  O'Rourke,  "  whin  we  can  live  at  aise  on 
our  earnin's.  Who  'd  be  afther  frettin'  his- 
self ,  wid  money  in  the  bank  ?  How  much  is 
it,  Peggy  darlint  ?  " 

And  divil  a  stroke  more  of  work  did  he 
do.  He  lounged  down  on  the  wharves  JS>\ 
with  his  short  clay  pipe  stuck 
lips  and  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
at  the  sail-boats  on  the  river.  He 
the  door-step  of  the  Finnigan  domicile,  { 
plentifully  chaffed  the  passers-by.  Now 
then,  when  he  could  wheedle  some  fractionate? 
currency  out  of  Margaret,  he  spent  it  like  a 
crown-prince  at  The  Wee  Drop  around  the 
corner.  With  that  fine  magnetism  which 
draws  together  birds  of  a  feather,  he  shortly 
drew  about  him  all  the  ne'er-do-weels  of  Eiv- 
ermouth.  It  was  really  wonderfid  what  an 
unsuspected  lot  of  them  there  was.  From 
all  the  frowzy  purlieus  of  the  town  they 
crept  forth  into  the  sunlight  to  array  them 
selves  under  the  banner  of  the  prince  of 
scallawags.  It  was  edifying  of  a  summer 
afternoon  to  see  a  dozen  of  them  sitting  in 
a  row,  like  turtles,  on  the  string-piece  of 
Jedediah  Hand's  wharf,  with  their  twenty- 
four  feet  dangling  over  the  water,  assisting 


A  RIVERMOUTH  ROMANCE.  243 

Mr.  O'Rourke  in  contemplating  the  islands 
in  the  harbor,  and  upholding  the  scenery,  as 
it  were. 

The  rascal  had  one  accomplishment,  he 
had  a  heavenly  voice — quite  in  the  rough, 
to  be  sure  —  and  he  played  on  the  violin  like 
an  angel.  He  did  not  know  one  note  from 
another,  but  he  played  in  a  sweet  natural 
way,  just  as  Orpheus  must  have  played,  by 
ear.  The  drunker  he  was  the  more  pathos 
and  humor  he  wrung  from  the  old  violin,  his 
sole  piece  of  personal  property.  He  had  a 
singular  fancy  for  getting  up  at  two  or  three 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  playing  by  an 
open  casement,  to  the  distraction  of  all  the 
dogs  in  the  immediate  neighborhood  and 
innumerable  dogs  in  the  distance. 

Unfortunately,  Mr.  O'Rourke's  freaks  were 
not  always  of  so  innocent  a  complexion.  On 
one  or  two  occasions,  through  an  excess  of 
animal  and  other  spirits,  he  took  to  break 
ing  windows  in  the  town.  Among  his  noc 
turnal  feats  he  accomplished  the  demolition 
of  the  glass  in  the  door  of  The  Wee  Drop. 
Now,  breaking  windows  in  Rivermouth  is 
an  amusement  not  wholly  disconnected  with 
an  interior  view  of  the  police-station  (bride 
well  is  the  local  term)  ;  so  it  happened  that 


244  A  RIVERMOUTH  ROMANCE. 

Mr.  O'Rourke  woke  up  one  fine  morning  and 
found  himself  snug  and  tight  in  one  of  the 
cells  in  the  rear  of  the  Brick  Market.  His 
plea  that  the  bull's-eye  in  the  glass  door  of 
The  Wee  Drop  winked  at  him  in  an  insult- 
in'  manner  as  he  was  passing  by  did  not 
prevent  Justice  Hackett  from  fining  the  de 
linquent  ten  dollars  and  costs,  which  made 
sad  havoc  with  the  poor  wife's  bank  account. 
So  Margaret's  married  life  wore  on,  and  all 
went  merry  as  a  funeral  knell. 

After  Mrs.  Bilkins,  with  a  brow  as  severe 
as  that  of  one  of  the  Parcse,  had  closed  the 
door  upon  the  O'Rourkes  that  summer  morn 
ing,  she  sat  down  on  the  stairs,  and,  sinking 
the  indignant  goddess  in  the  woman,  burst 
into  tears.  She  was  still  very  wroth  with 
Margaret  Callaghan,  as  she  persisted  in  call 
ing  her ;  very  merciless  and  unforgiving,  as 
the  gentler  sex  are  apt  to  be  —  to  the  gen 
tler  sex.  Mr.  Bilkins,  however,  after  the 
first  vexation,  missed  Margaret  from  the 
household;  missed  her  singing,  which  was 
in  itself  as  helpful  as  a  second  girl ;  missed 
her  hand  in  the  preparation  of  those  hun 
dred  and  one  nameless  comforts  which  are 
necessities  to  the  old,  and  wished  in  his  soul 
that  he  had  her  back  again.  Who  could 


A  RIVERMOUTB  ROMANCE.  245 

make  a  gruel,  when  he  was  ill,  or  cook  a 
steak,  when  he  was  well,  like  Margaret? 
So,  meeting  her  one  morning  at  the  fish- 
market  —  for  Mr.  O'Rourke  had  long  since 
given  over  the  onerous  labor  of  catching 
cunners  —  he  spoke  to  her  kindly,  and 
asked  her  how  she  liked  the  change  in  her 
life,  and  if  Mr.  O'Rourke  was  good  to  her. 

"  Troth,  thin,  sur,"  said  Margaret,  with  a 
short,  dry  laugh,  "  he  's  the  divil's  own  !  " 

Margaret  was  thin  and  careworn,  and  her 
laugh  had  the  mild  gayety  of  champagne 
not  properly  corked.  These  things  were 
apparent  even  to  Mr.  Bilkins,  who  was  not 
a  shrewd  observer. 

"  I  'm  afraid,  Margaret,"  he  remarked  sor 
rowfully,  "  that  you  are  not  making  both 
ends  meet." 

"  Begorra,  I  'd  be  glad  if  I  could  make 
one  ind  meet !  "  returned  Margaret. 

With  a  duplicity  quite  foreign  to  his  na 
ture,  Mr.  Bilkins  gradually  drew  from  her 
the  true  state  of  affairs.  Mr.  O'Rourke  was 
a  very  bad  case  indeed ;  he  did  nothing 
towards  her  support  ;  he  was  almost  con 
stantly  drunk  ;  the  little  money  she  had  laid 
by  was  melting  away,  and  would  not  last 
until  winter.  Mr.  O'Rourke  was  perpetually 


246  A  RIVERMOUTH  ROMANCE. 

coming  home  with  a  sprained  ankle,  or  a 
bruised  shoulder,  or  a  broken  head.  He  had 
broken  most  of  the  furniture  in  his  festive 
hours,  including  the  cooking-stove.  "  In 
short,"  as  Mr.  Bilkins  said  in  relating  the 
matter  afterwards  to  Mrs.  Bilkins,  "he  had 
broken  all  those  things  which  he  should  n't 
have  broken,  and  failed  to  break  the  one 
thing  he  ought  to  have  broken  long  ago  — 
his  neck,  namely." 

The  revelation  which  startled  Mr.  Bilkins 
most  was  this :  in  spite  of  all,  Margaret 
loved  Larry  with  the  whole  of  her  warm 
Irish  heart.  Further  than  keeping  the  poor 
creature  up  waiting  for  him  until  ever  so 
much  o'clock  at  night,  it  did  not  appear  that 
he  treated  her  with  personal  cruelty.  If  he 
had  beaten  her,  perhaps  she  would  have 
worshipped  him.  It  needed  only  that. 

Revolving  Margaret's  troubles  in  his 
thoughts  as  he  walked  homeward,  Mr.  Bil 
kins  struck  upon  a  plan  by  which  he  could 
help  her.  When  this  plan  was  laid  before 
Mrs.  Bilkins,  she  opposed  it  with  a  vehe 
mence  that  convinced  him  she  had  made  up 
her  mind  to  adopt  it. 

"  Never,  never  will  I  have  that  ungrateful 
woman  under  this  roof !  "  cried  Mrs.  Bil- 


A  RIVERMOUTH  ROMANCE.  247 

kins ;  and  accordingly  the  next  day  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  O'Rourke  took  up  their  abode  in  the 
Bilkins  mansion  —  Margaret  as  cook,  and 
Larry  as  gardener. 

"  I  'm  convanient  if  the  owld  gintleman 
is,"  had  been  Mr.  O'Rourke's  remark,  when 
the  proposition  was  submitted  to  him.  Not 
that  Mr.  O'Rourke  had  the  faintest  idea  of 
gardening.  He  did  n't  know  a  tulip  from  a 
tomato.  He  was  one  of  those  sanguine  peo 
ple  who  never  hesitate  to  undertake  any 
thing,  and  are  never  abashed  by  their  hercu 
lean  inability. 

Mr.  Bilkins  did  not  look  to  Margaret's 
husband  for  any  great  botanical  knowledge ; 
but  he  was  rather  surprised  one  day  when 
Mr.  O'Rourke  pointed  to  the  triangular  bed 
of  lilies-of-the-valley,  then  out  of  flower, 
and  remarked,  "  Thim  's  a  nate  lot  o'  purta- 
ties  ye  've  got  there,  sur."  Mr.  Bilkins,  we 
repeat,  did  not  expect  much  from  Mr. 
O'Rourke's  skill  in  gardening  ;  his  purpose 
was  to  reform  the  fellow  if  possible,  and  in 
any  case  to  make  Margaret's  lot  easier. 

Reestablished  in  her  old  home,  Margaret 
broke  into  song  again,  and  Mr.  O'Rourke 
himself  promised  to  do  very  well ;  morally, 
we  mean,  not  agriculturally.  His  ignorance 


248  A  RIVERMOUTH  ROMANCE. 

of  the  simplest  laws  of  nature,  if  nature  has 
any  simple  laws,  and  his  dense  stupidity  on 
every  other  subject  were  heavy  trials  to  Mr. 
Bilkins.  Happily,  Mr.  Bilkins  was  not  with 
out  a  sense  of  humor,  else  he  would  have 
found  Mr.  O'Rourke  insupportable.  Just 
when  the  old  gentleman's  patience  was  about 
exhausted,  the  gardener  would  commit  some 
atrocity  so  perfectly  comical  that  his  master 
all  but  loved  him  for  the  moment. 

"  Larry,"  said  Mr.  Bilkins,  one  breathless 
afternoon  in  the  middle  of  September,  "  just 
see  how  the  thermometer  on  the  back  porch 
stands." 

Mr.  O'Rourke  disappeared,  and  after  a 
prolonged  absence  returned  with  the  mon 
strous  announcement  that  the  thermometer 
stood  at  820 ! 

Mr.  Bilkins  looked  at  the  man  closely. 
He  was  unmistakably  sober. 

"Eight  hundred  and  twenty  what?"  cried 
Mr.  Bilkins,  feeling  very  warm,  as  he  natu 
rally  would  in  so  high  a  temperature. 

"Eight  hundthred  an'  twinty  degrays,  I 
suppose,  sur." 

"  Larry,  you  're  an  idiot." 

This  was  obviously  not  to  Mr.  O'Rourke's 
taste ;  for  he  went  out  and  brought  the  ther- 


A  R1VERMOUTE  ROMANCE.  249 

mometer,  and,  pointing  triumphantly  to  the 
line  of  numerals  running  parallel  with  the 
glass  tube,  exclaimed,  "  Add  'em  up  yerself, 
thin!" 

Perhaps  this  would  not  have  been  amus 
ing  if  Mr.  Bilkins  had  not  spent  the  greater 
part  of  the  previous  forenoon  in  initiating 
Mr.  O'Kourke  into  the  mysteries  of  the  ther 
mometer.  Nothing  could  make  amusing  Mr. 
O'Rourke's  method  of  setting  out  crocus 
bulbs.  Mr.  Bilkins  had  received  a  lot  of  a 
very  choice  variety  from  Boston,  and  having 
a  headache  that  morning,  turned  over  to 
Mr.  O'Rourke  the  duty  of  planting  them. 
Though  he  had  never  seen  a  bulb  in  his  life, 
Larry  unblushingly  asserted  that  he  had  set 
out  thousands  for  Sir  Lucius  O'Grady  of 
O'Grady  Castle,  "  an  illegant  place  intirely, 
wid  tin  miles  o'  garden-walks,"  added  Mr. 
O'Rourke,  crushing  Mr.  Bilkins,  who  boasted 
only  of  a  few  humble  flower-beds. 

The  following  day  he  stepped  into  the 
garden  to  see  how  Larry  had  done  his  work. 
There  stood  the  parched  bulbs,  carefully  ar 
ranged  in  circles  and  squares  on  top  of  the 
soil. 

"  Did  n't  I  teU  you  to  set  out  these  bulbs?  " 
cried  Mr.  Bilkins,  wrathfully. 


250  A  R1VERMOUTH  ROMANCE. 

"  An'  did  n't  I  set  'em  out  ?  "  expostulated 
Mr.  O'Rourke.  "An'  ain't  they  a  settin' 
there  beautiful  ?  " 

"  But  you  should  have  put  them  into  the 
ground,  stupid ! " 

"  Is  it  bury  'em,  ye  mane  ?  Be  jabbers  ! 
how  could  they  iver  git  out  agin  ?  Give  the 
little  jokers  a  fair  show,  Misther  Bilkins  !  " 

For  two  weeks  Mr.  O'Rourke  conducted 
himself  with  comparative  propriety  ;  that  is 
to  say,  be  rendered  himself  useless  about  the 
place,  appeared  regularly  at  his  meals,  and 
kept  sober.  Perhaps  the  hilarious  strains  of 
music  which  sometimes  issued  at  midnight 
from  the  upper  window  of  the  north  gable 
were  not  just  what  a  quiet,  unostentatious 
family  would  desire ;  but  on  the  whole  there 
was  not  much  to  complain  of. 

The  third  week  witnessed  a  falling  off. 
Though  always  promptly  on  hand  at  the 
serving  out  of  rations,  Mr.  O'Rourke  did  not 
even  make  a  pretence  of  working  in  the  gar 
den.  He  would  disappear  mysteriously  im 
mediately  after  breakfast,  and  reappear  with 
supernatural  abruptness  at  dinner.  Nobody 
knew  what  he  did  with  himself  in  the  inter 
val,  until  one  day  he  was  observed  to  fall 
out  of  an  apple-tree  near  the  stable.  His 


A  RIVERMOUTH  ROMANCE.  251 

retreat  discovered,  he  took  to  the  wharves 
and  the  alleys  in  the  distant  part  of  the 
town.  It  soon  became  evident  that  his  ways 
were  not  the  ways  of  temperance,  and  that 
all  his  paths  led  to  The  Wee  Drop. 

Of  course  Margaret  tried  to  keep  this 
from  the  family.  Being  a  woman,  she  coined 
excuses  for  him  in  her  heart.  It  was  a  dull 
life  for  the  lad,  any  way,  and  it  was  worse 
than  him  that  was  leading  Larry  astray. 
Hours  and  hours  after  the  old  people  had 
gone  to  bed,  she  would  sit  without  a  light  in 
the  lonely  kitchen,  listening  for  that  shuf 
fling  step  along  the  gravel  walk.  Night 
after  night  she  never  closed  her  eyes,  and 
went  about  the  house  the  next  day  with  that 
smooth,  impenetrable  face  behind  which 
women  hide  their  care. 

One  morning  found  Margaret  sitting  pale 
and  anxious  by  the  kitchen  stove.  O'Rourke 
had  not  come  home  at  all.  Noon  came,  and 
night,  but  not  Larry.  Whenever  Mrs.  Bil- 
kins  approached  her  that  day,  Margaret  was 
humming  "  Kate  Kearney  "  quite  merrily. 
But  when  her  work  was  done,  she  stole  out 
at  the  back  gate  and  went  in  search  of  him. 
She  scoured  the  neighborhood  like  a  mad 
woman.  O'Rourke  had  not  been  at  the  Fin- 


252  A  RIVERMOUTH  ROMANCE, 

nigans'.  He  had  not  been  at  The  Wee  Drop 
since  Monday,  and  this  was  Wednesday 
night.  Her  heart  sunk  within  her  when 
she  failed  to  find  him  in  the  police-station. 
Some  dreadful  thing  had  happened  to  him. 
She  came  back  to  the  house  with  one  hand 
pressed  wearily  against  her  cheek.  The 
dawn  struggled  through  the  kitchen  win 
dows,  and  fell  upon  Margaret  crouched  by 
the  stove. 

She  could  no  longer  wear  her  mask. 
When  Mr.  Bilkins  came  down  she  confessed 
that  Larry  had  taken  to  drinking  again,  and 
had  not  been  home  for  two  nights. 

"  Mayhap  he  's  drownded  hisself,"  sug 
gested  Margaret,  wringing  her  hands. 

"  Not  he,"  said  Mr.  Bilkins ;  "  he  does  n't 
like  the  taste  of  water  well  enough." 

"  Troth,  thin,  he  does  n't,"  reflected  Mar 
garet,  and  the  reflection  comforted  her. 

"  At  any  rate,  I  '11  go  and  look  him  up 
after  breakfast,"  said  Mr.  Bilkins.  And 
after  breakfast,  accordingly,  Mr.  Bilkins  sal 
lied  forth  with  the  depressing  expectation  of 
finding  Mr.  O'Rourke  without  much  diffi 
culty.  "  Come  to  think  of  it,"  said  the  old 
gentleman  to  himself,  drawing  on  his  white 
cotton  gloves  as  he  walked  up  Anchor  Street, 
"7"  don't  want  to  find  him." 


A    RIVERMOUTH  ROMANCE.  253 


III. 

BUT  Mr.  O'Rourke  was  not  to  be  found. 
With  amiable  cynicism  Mr.  Bilkins  directed 
his  steps  in  the  first  instance  to  the  police- 
station,  quite  confident  that  a  bird  of  Mr. 
O'Rourke's  plumage  would  be  brought  to 
perch  in  such  a  cage.  But  not  so  much  as  a 
feather  of  him  was  discoverable.  The  Wee 
Drop  was  not  the  only  bacchanalian  resort 
in  Rivermouth  ;  there  were  five  or  six  other 
low  drinking-shops  scattered  about  town, 
and  through  these  Mr.  Bilkins  went  con 
scientiously.  He  then  explored  various  blind 
alleys,  known  haunts  of  the  missing  man, 
and  took  a  careful  survey  of  the  wharves 
along  the  river  on  his  way  home.  He  even 
shook  the  apple-tree  near  the  stable  with  a 
vague  hope  of  bringing  down  Mr.  O'Rourke, 
but  brought  down  nothing  except  a  few  win 
ter  apples,  which,  being  both  unripe  and  un 
sound,  were  not  perhaps  bad  representatives 
of  the  object  of  his  search. 

That  evening  a  small  boy  stopped  at  the 


254  A  RIVERMOUTH  ROMANCE. 

door  of  the  Bilkins  mansion  with  a  straw 
hat,  at  once  identified  as  Mr.  O'Rourke's, 
which  had  been  found  on  Neal's  Wharf. 
This  would  have  told  against  another  man  ; 
but  O'Rourke  was  always  leaving  his  hat  on 
a  wharf.  Margaret's  distress  is  not  to  be 
pictured.  She  fell  back  upon  and  clung  to 
the  idea  that  Larry  had  drowned  himself, 
not  intentionally,  may  be  ;  possibly  he  had 
fallen  overboard  while  intoxicated. 

The  late  Mr.  Buckle  has  informed  us  that 
death  by  drowning  is  regulated  by  laws  as 
inviolable  and  beautiful  as  those  of  the  solar 
system ;  that  a  certain  percentage  of  the 
earth's  population  is  bound  to  drown  itself 
annually,  whether  it  wants  to  or  not.  It 
may  be  presumed,  then,  that  Rivermouth's 
proper  quota  of  dead  bodies  was  washed 
ashore  during  the  ensuing  two  months.  There 
had  been  gales  off  the  coast  and  pleasure 
parties  on  the  river,  and  between  them  they 
had  managed  to  do  a  ghastly  business.  But 
Mr.  O'Rourke  failed  to  appear  among  the 
flotsam  and  jetsam  which  the  receding 
tides  left  tangled  in  the  piles  of  the  River- 
mouth  wharves.  This  convinced  Margaret 
that  Larry  had  proved  a  too  tempting  mor 
sel  to  some  buccaneering  shark,  or  had  fallen 


A  RIVERMOUTH  ROMANCE.  255 

a  victim  to  one  of  those  immense  schools  of 
fish  which  seem  to  have  a  yearly  appoint 
ment  with  the  fishermen  on  this  coast. 
From  that  day  Margaret  never  saw  a  cod  or 
a  mackerel  brought  into  the  house  without 
an  involuntary  shudder.  She  averted  her 
head  in  making  up  the  fish-balls,  as  if  she 
half  dreaded  to  detect  a  faint  aroma  of  whis 
key  about  them.  And,  indeed,  why  might 
not  a  man  fall  into  the  sea,  be  eaten,  say, 
by  a  halibut,  and  reappear  on  the  scene  of 
his  earthly  triumphs  and  defeats  in  the  non 
committal  form  of  hashed  fish  ? 

"  Imperial  Caesar,  dead  and  turned  to  clay, 
Might  stop  a  hole  to  keep  the  wind  away." 

But,  perhaps,  as  the  conservative  Horatio 
suggests,  't  were  to  consider  too  curiously  to 
consider  so. 

Mr.  Bilkins  had  come  to  adopt  Margaret's 
explanation  of  O'Rourke's  disappearance. 
He  was  undoubtedly  drowned ;  had  most 
likely  drowned  himself.  The  hat  picked  up 
on  the  wharf  was  strong  circumstantial  evi 
dence  in  that  direction.  But  one  feature  of 
the  case  staggered  Mr.  Bilkins.  O'Rourke's 
violin  had  also  disappeared.  Now,  it  re 
quired  no  great  effort  to  imagine  a  man 
throwing  himself  overboard  under  the  influ- 


256  A  RIVERMOUTH  ROMANCE. 

ence  of  mania  a  potu ;  but  it  was  difficult 
to  conceive  of  a  man  committing  violinicide ! 
If  the  fellow  went  to  drown  himself,  why 
did  he  take  his  fiddle  with  him  ?  He  might 
as  well  have  taken  an  umbrella  or  a  German 
student-lamp.  This  question  troubled  Mr. 
Bilkins  a  good  deal  first  and  last.  But  one 
thing  was  indisputable :  the  man  was  gone  — • 
and  had  evidently  gone  by  water. 

It  was  now  that  Margaret  invested  her 
husband  with  charms  of  mind  and  person 
not  calculated  to  make  him  recognizable  by 
any  one  who  had  ever  had  the  privilege  of 
knowing  him  in  the  faulty  flesh.  She  elim 
inated  all  his  bad  qualities,  and  projected 
from  her  imagination  a  Mr.  O'Rourke  as  he 
ought  to  have  been  —  a  species  of  seraphic 
being  mixed  up  in  some  way  with  a  violin ; 
and  to  this  ideal  she  erected  a  costly  head 
stone  in  the  suburban  cemetery.  "  It  would 
be  a  proud  day  for  Larry,"  observed  Marga 
ret  contemplatively,  "  if  he  could  rest  his  oi 
on  the  illegant  monumint  I  've  put  up  to 
him."  If  Mr.  O'Rourke  could  have  read 
the  inscription  on  it,  he  would  never  have 
suspected  his  own  complicity  in  the  matter. 

But  there  the  marble  stood,  sacred  to  his 
memory;  and  soon  the  snow  came  down 


A  RIVERMOUTH  ROMANCE.  257 

from  the  gray  sky  and  covered  it,  and  the 
invisible  snow  of  weeks  and  months  drifted 
down  on  Margaret's  heart,  and  filled  up  its 
fissures,  and  smoothed  off  the  sharp  angles 
of  its  grief ;  and  there  was  peace  upon  it. 

Not  but  she  sorrowed  for  Larry  at  timesT 
Yet  life  had  a  relish  to  it  again ;  she  was 
free,  though  she  did  not  look  at  it  in  that 
light ;  she  was  happier  in  a  quiet  fashion 
than  she  had  ever  been,  though  she  would 
not  have  acknowledged  it  to  herself.  She 
wondered  that  she  had  the  heart  to  laugh 
when  the  ice-man  made  love  to  her.  Per 
haps  she  was  conscious  of  something  comi 
cally  incongruous  in  the  warmth  of  a  gentle 
man  who  spent  all  winter  in  cutting  ice,  and 
all  summer  in  dealing  it  out  to  his  customers. 
She  had  not  the  same  excuse  for  laughing  at 
the  baker ;  yet  she  laughed  still  more  mer 
rily  at  him  when  he  pressed  her  hand  over 
the  steaming  loaf  of  brown-bread,  delivered 
every  Saturday  morning  at  the  scullery  door. 
Both  these  gentlemen  had  known  Margaret 
many  years,  yet  neither  of  them  had  valued 
her  very  highly  until  another  man  came 
along  and  married  her.  A  widow,  it  would 
appear,  is  esteemed  in  some  sort  as  a  war 
ranted  article,  being  stamped  with  the  ma 
ker's  name. 


258  A-  RIVERMOUTH  ROMANCE. 

There  was  even  a  third  lover  in  prospect; 
for  according  to  the  gossip  of  the  town,  Mr. 
Donnehugh  was  frequently  to  be  seen  of  a 
Sunday  afternoon  standing  in  the  cemetery 
and  regarding  Mr.  O'Rourke's  headstone 
'with  unrestrained  satisfaction. 

A  year  had  passed  away,  and  certain  bits 
of  color  blossoming  among  Margaret's  weeds 
indicated  that  the  winter  of  her  mourn 
ing  was  over.  The  ice-man  and  the  baker 
were  hating  each  other  cordially,  and  Mrs. 
Bilkins  was  daily  expecting'  it  would  be  dis 
covered  before  night  that  Margaret  had 
married  one  or  both  of  them.  But  to  do 
Margaret  justice,  she  was  faithful  in  thought 
and  deed  to  the  memory  of  O'Rourke  —  not 
the  O'Rourke  who  disappeared  so  strangely, 
but  the  O'Rourke  who  never  existed. 

"  D'  ye  think,  mum,"  she  said  one  day  to 
Mrs.  Bilkins,  as  that  lady  was  adroitly  sound 
ing  her  on  the  ice  question  —  "  d'  ye  think 
I  'd  condescind  to  take  up  wid  the  likes  o' 
him,  or  the  baker  either,  afther  sich  a  man 
as  Larry  ?  " 

The  rectified  and  clarified  O'Rourke  was 
a  permanent  wonder  to  Mr.  Bilkins,  who 
bore  up  under  the  bereavement  with  notice 
able  resignation. 


A  RIVERMOUTH  ROMANCE.  259 

"  Peggy  is  right,"  said  the  old  gentleman, 
who  was  superintending  the  burning  out  of 
the  kitchen  flue.  "  She  won't  find  another 
man  like  Larry  O'Rourke  in  a  hurry." 

"  Thrue  for  ye,  Mr.  Bilkins,"  answered 
Margaret.  "  Maybe  there  's  as  good  fish  in 
the  say  as  iver  was  caught,  but  I  don't  be- 
lave  it,  all  the  same." 

As  good  fish  in  the  sea !  The  words  re 
called  to  Margaret  the  nature  of  her  loss, 
and  she  went  on  with  her  work  in  silence. 

"  What  —  what  is  it,  Ezra  ?  "  cried  Mrs. 
Bilkins,  changing  color,  and  rising  hastily 
from  the  breakfast  table.  Her  first  thought 
was  of  apoplexy. 

There  sat  Mr.  Bilkins,  with  his  wig  pushed 
back  from  his  forehead,  and  his  eyes  fixed 
vacantly  on  The  Weekly  Chronicle,  which 
he  held  out  at  arm's  length  before  him. 

"  Good  heavens,  Ezra !  what  is  the  mat 
ter?" 

Mr.  Bilkins  turned  his  eyes  upon  her  me 
chanically,  as  if  he  were  a  great  wax-doll, 
and  somebody  had  pulled  his  wire. 

"  Can't  you  speak,  Ezra  ?  " 

His  lips  opened,  and  moved  inarticulately ; 
then  he  pointed  a  rigid  finger,  in  the  man- 


260  A  RIVERMOUTH  ROMANCE. 

ner  of  a  guide-board,  at  a  paragraph  in  the 
paper,  which  he  held  up  for  Mrs.  Bilkins  to 
read  over  his  shoulder.  When  she  had  read 
it  she  sunk  back  into  her  chair  without  a 
word,  and  the  two  sat  contemplating  each 
other  as  if  they  had  never  met  before  in 
this  world,  and  were  not  overpleased  at 
meeting. 

The  paragraph  which  produced  this  sin 
gular  effect  on  the  aged  couple  occurred  at 
the  end  of  a  column  of  telegraph  despatches 
giving  the  details  of  an  unimportant  en 
gagement  that  had  just  taken  place  between 
one  of  the  blockading  squadron  and  a  Con 
federate  cruiser.  The  engagement  itself 
does  not  concern  us,  but  this  item  from  the 
list  of  casualties  on  the  Union  side  has  a 
direct  bearing  on  our  narrative  :  — 

"Larry  O'Rourke,  seaman,  splinter  wound  in  the 
leg.  Not  serious." 

That  splinter  flew  far.  It  glanced  from 
Mr.  O'Rourke's  leg,  went  plumb  through 
the  Bilkins  mansion,  and  knocked  over  a 
small  marble  slab  in  the  Old  South  Bury 
ing  Ground. 

If  a  ghost  had  dropped  in  familiarly  to 
breakfast,  the  constraint  and  consternation 


A  RIVERMOUTH  ROMANCE.  261 

of  the  Bilkins  family  could  not  have  been 
greater.  How  was  the  astounding  intelli 
gence  to  be  broken  to  Margaret  ?  Her  ex 
plosive  Irish  nature  made  the  task  one  of 
extreme  delicacy.  Mrs.  Bilkins  flatly  de 
clared  herself  incapable  of  undertaking  it. 
Mr.  Bilkins,  with  many  misgivings  as  to  his 
fitness,  assumed  the  duty ;  for  it  would  never 
do  to  have  the  news  sprung  suddenly  upon 
Margaret  by  people  outside. 

As  Mrs.  O'Rourke  was  clearing  away  the 
breakfast  things,  Mr.  Bilkins,  who  had  lin 
gered  near  the  window  with  the  newspaper 
in  his  hand,  coughed  once  or  twice  in  an  un 
natural  way  to  show  that  he  was  not  embar 
rassed,  and  began  to  think  that  may  be  it 
would  be  best  to  tell  Margaret  after  dinner. 
Mrs.  Bilkins  fathomed  his  thought  with  that 
intuition  which  renders  women  terrible,  and 
sent  across  the  room  an  eye-telegram  to 
this  effect,  "  Now  is  your  time." 

"  There  's  been  another  battle  down  South, 
Margaret,"  said  the  old  gentleman  presently, 
folding  up  the  paper  and  putting  it  in  his 
pocket.  "  A  sea-fight  this  time." 

"  Sure,  an'  they  're  allus  fightin'  down 
there." 

"  But  not  always  with  so  little  damage. 


262  A  RIVERMOUTH  ROMANCE. 

There  was  only  one  man  wounded  on  our 
side." 

"  Pore  man !  It 's  sorry  we  oughter  be 
for  his  wife  an'  childer,  if  he  's  got  any." 

"  Not  badly  wounded,  you  will  understand, 
Margaret  —  not  at  all  seriously  wounded  ; 
only  a  splinter  in  the  leg." 

"  Faith,  thin,  a  splinter  in  the  leg  is  no 
pleasant  thing  in  itself." 

"A  mere  scratch,"  said  Mr.  Bilkins 
lightly,  as  if  he  were  constantly  in  the  habit 
of  going  about  with  a  splinter  in  his  own 
leg,  and  found  it  rather  agreeable.  "The 
odd  part  of  the  matter  is  the  man's  first 
name.  His  first  name  was  Larry." 

Margaret  nodded,  as  one  should  say, 
There  's  a  many  Larrys  in  the  world. 

"  But  the  oddest  part  of  it,"  continued 
Mr.  Bilkins,  in  a  carelessly  sepulchral  voice, 
"  is  the  man's  last  name." 

Something  in  the  tone  of  his  voice  made 
Margaret  look  at  him,  and  something  in  the 
expression  of  his  face  caused  the  blood  to  fly 
from  Margaret's  cheek. 

"  The  man's  last  name !  "  she  repeated, 
wonderingly. 

"  Yes,  his  last  name  —  O'Rourke." 

"  D'  ye  mane  it  ?  "   shrieked  Margaret  — 


A  RIVERMOUTH  ROMANCE.  263 

"  d'  ye  mane  it  ?  Glory  to  God  !  O  worra ! 
worra !  " 

"  Well,  Ezra,"  said  Mrs.  Bilkins,  in  one 
of  those  spasms  of  base  ingratitude  to  which 
even  the  most  perfect  women  are  liable, 
"  you  've  made  nice  work  of  it.  You  might 
as  well  have  knocked  her  down  with  an 
axe!" 

"  But,  my  dear  "  - 

"  Oh,  bother !  —  my  smelling-bottle,  quick ! 
—  second  bureau  drawer  —  left-hand  side." 

Joy  never  kills ;  it  is  a  celestial  kind  of 
hydrogen  of  which  it  seems  impossible  to  get 
too  much  at  one  inhalation.  In  an  hour 
Margaret  was  able  to  converse  with  compar 
ative  calmness  on  the  resuscitation  of  Larry 
O'Rourke,  whom  the  firing  of  a  cannon  had 
brought  to  the  surface  as  if  he  had  been  in 
reality  a  drowned  body. 

Now  that  the  whole  town  was  aware  of 
Mr.  O'Rourke's  fate,  his  friend  Mr.  Donne- 
huffh  came  forward  with  a  statement  that 

o 

would  have  been  of  some  interest  at  an  ear 
lier  period,  but  was  of  no  service  as  matters 
stood,  except  so  far  as  it  assisted  in  remov 
ing  from  Mr.  Bilkins's  mind  a  passing  doubt 
as  to  whether  the  Larry  O'Rourke  of  the 
telegraphic  reports  was  Margaret's  scape- 


264  A  RIVERMOUTH  ROMANCE. 

grace  of  a  husband.  Mr.  Donneliugh  had 
known  all  along  that  O'Rourke  had  abscond 
ed  to  Boston  by  a  night  train  and  enlisted 
in  the  navy.  It  was  the  possession  of  this 
knowledge  that  had  made  it  impossible  for 
Mr.  Donnehugh  to  look  at  Mr.  O'Rourke's 
gravestone  without  grinning. 

At  Margaret's  request,  and  in  Margaret's 
name,  Mr.  Bilkins  wrote  three  or  four  let 
ters  to  O'Rourke,  and  finally  succeeded  in 
extorting  an  epistle  from  that  gentleman,  in 
which  he  told  Margaret  to  cheer  up,  that 
his  fortune  was  as  good  as  made,  and  that 
the  day  would  come  when  she  should  ride 
through  the  town  in  her  own  coach,  and  no 
thanks  to  old  flint-head,  who  pretended  to 
be  so  fond  of  her.  Mr.  Bilkins  tried  to  con 
jecture  who  was  meant  by  old  flint-head,  but 
was  obliged  to  give  it  up.  Mr.  O'Rourke 
furthermore  informed  Margaret  that  he  had 
three  hundred  dollars  prize-money  coming  to 
him,  and  broadly  intimated  that  when  he 
got  home  he  intended  to  have  one  of  the 
most  extensive  blow-outs  ever  witnessed  in 
Rivermouth. 

"  Och !  "  laughed  Margaret,  "  that 's  jist 
Larry  over  agin.  The  pore  lad  was  allus 
full  of  his  nonsense  an'  spirits." 


A  R1VERMOUTH  ROMANCE.  265 

"  That  he  was,"  said  Mr.  Bilkins,  dryly. 

Content  with  the  fact  that  her  husband 
was  in  the  land  of  the  living,  Margaret  gave 
herself  no  trouble  over  the  separation. 
O'Rourke  had  shipped  for  three  years  ;  one 
third  of  his  term  of  service  was  past,  and 
two  years  more,  God  willing,  would  see  him 
home  again.  This  was  Margaret's  view  of  it. 
Mr.  Bilkins' s  view  of  it  was  not  so  cheerful. 
The  prospect  of  Mr.  O'Rourke's  ultimate 
return  was  anything  but  enchanting.  Mr. 
Bilkins  was  by  no  means  disposed  to  kill 
the  fatted  calf.  He  would  much  rather 
have  killed  the  Prodigal  Son.  However, 
there  was  always  this  chance  :  he  might 
never  come  back. 

The  tides  rose  and  fell  at  the  Bivermouth 
wharves;  the  summer  moonlight  and  the 
winter  snow,  in  turn,  bleached  its  quiet 
streets  ;  and  the  two  years  had  nearly  gone 
by.  In  the  mean  time  nothing  had  been 
heard  of  O'Rourke.  If  he  ever  received  the 
five  or  six  letters  sent  to  him,  he  did  not 
fatigue  himself  by  answering  them. 

"  Larry  's  all  right,"  said  hopeful  Marga 
ret.  "  If  any  harum  had  come  to  the  gos 
soon,  we  'd  have  knowed  it.  It 's  the  bad 
news  that  travels  fast." 


266  A  RIVERMOUTH  ROMANCE. 

Mr.  Bilkins  was  not  so  positive  about 
that.  It  had  taken  a  whole  year  to  find 
out  that  O'Rourke  had  not  drowned  him 
self. 

The  period  of  Mr.  O'Rourke's  enlistment 
had  come  to  an  end.  Two  months  slipped 
by,  and  he  had  neglected  to  brighten  River- 
mouth  with  his  presence.  There  were  many 
things  that  might  have  detained  him,  diffi 
culties  in  getting  his  prize-papers  or  in  draw 
ing  his  pay ;  but  there  was  no  reason  why 
he  might  not  have  written.  The  days  were 
beginning  to  grow  long  to  Margaret,  and 
vague  forebodings  of  misfortune  possessed 
her. 

Perhaps  we  had  better  look  up  Mr. 
O'Rourke. 

He  had  seen  some  rough  times,  during 
those  three  years,  and  some  harder  work 
than  catching  cunners  at  the  foot  of  Anchor 
Street,  or  setting  out  crocuses  in  Mr.  Bil- 
kins's  back  garden.  He  had  seen  battles 
and  shipwreck,  and  death  in  many  guises ; 
but  they  had  taught  him  nothing,  as  the 
sequel  will  show.  With  his  active  career 
in  the  navy  we  shall  not  trouble  ourselves ; 
we  take  him  up  at  a  date  a  little  prior  to 
the  close  of  his  term  of  service. 


A  RIVERMOUTH  ROMANCE.  267 

Several  months  before,  he  had  been  trans 
ferred  from  the  blockading  squadron  to  a 
gun-boat  attached  to  the  fleet  operating 
against  the  forts  defending  New  Orleans. 
The  forts  had  fallen,  the  fleet  had  passed  on 
to  the  city,  and  Mr.  O'Rourke's  ship  lay  off 
in  the  stream,  binding  up  her  wounds.  In 
three  days  he  would  receive  his  discharge, 
and  the  papers  entitling  him  to  a  handsome 
amount  of  prize-money  in  addition  to  his 
pay.  With  noble  contempt  for  so  much  good 
fortune,  Mr.  O'Rourke  dropped  over  the 
bows  of  the  gun-boat  one  evening  and  man 
aged  to  reach  the  levee.  In  the  city  he  fell 
in  with  some  soldiers,  and,  being  of  a  con 
vivial  nature,  caroused  with  them  that  night, 
and  next  day  enlisted  in  a  cavalry  regi 
ment. 

Desertion  in  the  face  of  the  enemy  —  for, 
though  the  city  lay  under  Federal  guns,  it 
was  still  hostile  enough  —  involved  the  heav 
iest  penalties.  O'Rourke  was  speedily  ar 
rested  with  other  deserters,  tried  by  court- 
martial,  and  sentenced  to  death. 

The  intelligence  burst  like  a  shell  upon 
the  quiet  household  in  Anchor  Street,  listen 
ing  daily  for  the  sound  of  Larry  O'Rourke's 
footstep  on  the  threshold.  It  was  a  heavy 


268  A  RIVERMOUTH  ROMANCE. 

load  for  Margaret  to  bear,  after  all  those 
years  of  patient  vigil.  But  the  load  was  to 
be  lightened  for  her.  In  consideration  of 
O'Rourke's  long  service,  and  in  view  of  the 
fact  that  his  desertion  so  near  the  expiration 
of  his  time  was  an  absurdity,  the  Good  Pres 
ident  commuted  his  sentence  to  imprison 
ment  for  life,  with  loss  of  prize-money  and 
back  pay.  Mr.  O'Rourke  was  despatched 
North,  and  placed  in  Moyamensing  Prison. 

If  joy  could  kill,  Margaret  would  have 
been  a  dead  woman  the  day  these  tidings 
reached  Rivermouth ;  and  Mr.  Bilkins  him 
self  would  have  been  in  a  critical  condition, 
for,  though  he  did  not  want  O'Rourke  shot 
or  hanged,  he  was  delighted  to  have  him 
permanently  shelved. 

After  the  excitement  was  over,  and  this  is 
always  the  trying  time,  Margaret  accepted 
the  situation  philosophically. 

"  The  pore  lad 's  out  o'  harum's  rache, 
any  way,"  she  reflected.  "  He  can't  be  git- 
tin'  into  hot  wather  now,  and  that 's  a  fact. 
And  maybe  after  awhiles  they  '11  let  him  go 
agin.  They  let  out  murtherers  and  thaves 
and  sich  like,  and  Larry  's  done  no  hurt  to 
nobody  but  hisself." 

Margaret  was  inclined  to  be  rather  severe 


A  RIVERMOUTH  ROMANCE.  269 

on  President  Lincoln  for  taking  away  Lar 
ry's  prize-money.  The  impression  was  strong 
on  her  mind  that  the  money  went  into  Mr. 
Lincoln's  private  exchequer. 

"  I  would  n't  wonder  if  Misthress  Lincoln 
had  a  new  silk  gownd  or  two  this  fall,"  Mar 
garet  would  remark,  sarcastically. 

The  prison  rules  permitted  Mr.  O'Rourke 
to  receive  periodical  communications  from 
his  friends  outside.  Once  every  quarter 
Mr.  Bilkins  wrote  him  a  letter,  and  in  the 
interim  Margaret  kept  him  supplied  with 
those  doleful  popular  ballads,  printed  on 
broadsides,  which  one  sees  pinned  up  for 
sale  on  the  iron  railings  of  city  churchyards, 
and  seldom  anywhere  else.  They  seem  the 
natural  exhalations  of  the  mould  and  pathos 
of  such  places,  but  we  have  a  suspicion  that 
they  are  written  by  sentimental  young  un 
dertakers.  Though  these  songs  must  have 
been  a  solace  to  Mr.  O'Rourke  in  his  cap 
tivity,  he  never  so  far  forgot  himself  as  to 
acknowledge  their  receipt.  It  was  only 
through  the  kindly  chaplain  of  the  prison 
that  Margaret  was  now  and  then  advised  of 
the  well-being  of  her  husband. 

Towards  the  close  of  that  year  the  great 
O'Rourke  himself  did  condescend  to  write 


270  A  RIVERMOUTH  ROMANCE. 

one  letter.  As  this  letter  has  never  been 
printed,  and  as  it  is  the  only  specimen  ex 
tant  of  Mr.  O'Rourke's  epistolary  manner, 
we  lay  it  before  the  reader  verbatim  et  liter 
atim  :  — 

febuary.     1864 
mi  belovid  wife 

fur  the  luv  of  God  sind  mee  pop  gose 
the  wezel.     yours  till  deth 

larry  O  rourke. 

"  Pop  goes  the  Weasel "  was  sent  to  him, 
and  Mr.  Bilkins  ingeniously  slipped  into  the 
same  envelope  "  The  Drunkard's  Death " 
and  "  Beware  of  the  Bowl,"  two  spirited 
compositions  well  calculated  to  exert  a  salu 
tary  influence  over  a  man  imprisoned  for 
life. 

There  is  nothing  in  this  earthly  existence 
so  uncertain  as  what  seems  to  be  a  certainty. 
To  all  appearances,  the  world  outside  of 
Moyamensing  Prison  was  forever  a  closed 
book  to  O'Rourke.  But  the  Southern  Con 
federacy  collapsed,  the  General  Amnesty 
Proclamation  was  issued,  cell  doors  were 
thrown  open ;  and  one  afternoon  Mr.  Larry 
O'Rourke,  with  his  head  neatly  shaved, 
walked  into  the  Bilkins  kitchen  and  fright 
ened  Margaret  nearly  out  of  her  skin. 

Mr.  O'Rourke's  summing  up  of  his  case 


A  RIVERMOUTH  ROMANCE.  271 

was  characteristic  :  "  I  've  been  kilt  in  bat 
tle,  hanged  by  the  court-martial,  put  into  the 
lock-up  for  life,  and  here  I  am,  bedad,  not 
a  ha'p'orth  the  worse  for  it." 

None  the  worse  for  it,  certainly,  and  none 
the  better.  By  no  stretch  of  magical  fiction 
can  we  make  an  angel  of  him.  He  is  not  at 
all  the  material  for  an  apotheosis.  It  was 
not  for  him  to  reform  and  settle  down,  and 
become  a  respectable,  oppressed  tax-payer. 
His  conduct  in  Rivermouth,  after  his  return, 
was  a  repetition  of  his  old  ways.  Margaret 
all  but  broke  down  under  the  tests  to  which 
he  put  her  affections,  and  came  at  last  to 
wish  that  Larry  had  never  got  out  of  Moy- 
amensing  Prison. 

If  any  change  had  taken  place  in  Mr. 
O'Rourke,  it  showed  itself  in  occasional  fits 
of  sullenness  towards  Margaret.  It  was  in 
one  of  these  moods  that  he  slouched  his  hat 
over  his  brows,  and  told  her  she  need  not 
wait  dinner  for  him. 

It  will  be  a  cold  dinner,  if  Margaret  has 
kept  it  waiting  ;  for  two  years  have  gone  by 
since  that  day,  and  O'Rourke  has  not  come 
home. 

^  Possibly  he  is  off  on  a  whaling  voyage ; 
possibly  the   swift  maelstrom  has  dragged 


272  A  RIVERMOUTH  ROMANCE. 

him  down ;  perhaps  he  is  lifting  his  hand  to 
knock  at  the  door  of  the  Bilkins  mansion  as 
we  pen  these  words.  But  Margaret  does  not 
watch  for  him  impatiently  any  more.  There 
are  strands  of  gray  in  her  black  hair.  She 
has  had  her  romance. 


THE  LITTLE   VIOLINIST. 


Weep  with  ine,  all  you  that  read 

This  little  story ; 
And  know,  for  whom  a  tear  you  shed, 

Death's  sell  is  sorry. 


BEN  JONSON. 


THIS  story  is  no  invention  of  mine.  I 
could  not  invent  anything  half  so  lovely  and 
pathetic  as  seems  to  me  the  incident  which 
has  come  ready-made  to  my  hand. 

Some  of  you,  doubtless,  have  heard  of 
James  Speaight,  the  infant  violinist,  or 
Young  Americus,  as  he  was  called.  He  was 
born  in  London,  I  believe,  and  was  only 
four  years  old  when  his  father  brought  him 
to  this  country,  less  than  three  years  ago. 
Since  that  time  he  has  appeared  in  concerts 
and  various  entertainments  in  many  of  our 
principal  cities,  attracting  unusual  attention 
by  his  musical  skill.  I  confess,  however, 
that  I  had  not  heard  of  him  until  last  month, 
though  it  seems  he  had  previously  given  two 
or  three  public  performances  in  the  city 
where  I  live.  I  had  not  heard  of  him,  I 


274  THE  LITTLE   VIOLINIST. 

say,  until  last  month ;  but  since  then  I  do 
not  think  a  day  has  passed  when  this  child's 
face  has  not  risen  up  in  my  memory  —  the 
little  half-sad  face,  as  I  saw  it  once,  with  its 
large,  serious  eyes  and  infantile  mouth. 

I  have,  I  trust,  great  tenderness  for  all 
children ;  but  I  know  that  I  have  a  special 
place  in  my  heart  for  those  poor  little  crea 
tures  who  figure  in  circuses  and  shows,  or 
elsewhere,  as  "infant  prodigies."  Heaven 
help  such  little  folk !  It  was  an  unkind  fate 
that  did  not  make  them  commonplace,  stupid, 
happy  girls  and  boys  like  our  own  Fannys 
and  Charleys  and  Harrys.  Poor  little  waifs, 
that  never  know  any  babyhood  or  childhood 
—  sad  human  midges,  that  flutter  for  a  mo 
ment  in  the  glare  of  the  gaslights,  and  are 
gone.  Pitiful  little  children,  whose  tender 
limbs  and  minds  are  so  torn  and  strained 
by  thoughtless  task-masters,  that  it  seems 
scarcely  a  regrettable  thing  when  the  circus 
caravan  halts  awhile  on  its  route  to  make  a 
small  grave  by  the  wayside. 

I  never  witness  a  performance  of  child- 
acrobats,  or  the  exhibition  of  any  forced  tal 
ent,  physical  or  mental,  on  the  part  of  chil 
dren,  without  protesting,  at  least  in  my  own 
mind,  against  the  blindness  and  cruelty  of 


TUE  LITTLE   VIOLINIST.  275 

their  parents  or  guardians,  or  whoever  has 
care  of  them. 

I  saw  at  the  theatre,  the  other  night,  two 
tiny  girls  —  mere  babies  they  were  —  doing 
such  feats  upon  a  bar  of  wood  suspended 
from  the  ceiling  as  made  my  blood  run  cold. 
They  were  twin  sisters,  these  mites,  with  that 
old  young  look  on  their  faces  which  all  such 
unfortunates  have.  I  hardly  dared  glance 
at  them,  up  there  in  the  air,  hanging  by 
their  feet  from  the  swinging  bar,  twisting 
their  fragile  spines  and  distorting  their  poor 
little  bodies,  when  they  ought  to  have  been 
nestled  in  soft  blankets  in  a  cosey  chamber, 
with  the  angels  that  guard  the  sleep  of  little 
children  hovering  above  them.  I  hope  that 
the  father  of  those  two  babies  will  read  and 
ponder  this  page,  on  which  I  record  not 
alone  my  individual  protest,  but  the  protest 
of  hundreds  of  men  and  women  who  took 
no  pleasure  in  that  performance,  but  wit 
nessed  it  with  a  pang  of^  pity. 

There  is  a  Society  for  the  Prevention  of 
Cruelty  to  Dumb  Animals.  There  ought  to 
be  a  Society  for  the  Prevention  of  Cruelty 
to  Little  Children  ;  and  a  certain  influential 
gentleman,  who  does  some  things  well  and 
other  things  very  badly,  ought  to  attend  to 


276  THE  LITTLE    VIOLINIST. 

it.  The  name  of  this  gentleman  is  Public 
Opinion.1 

But  to  my  story. 

One  September  morning,  about  five  years 
and  a  half  ago,  there  wandered  to  my  fire 
side,  hand  in  hand,  two  small  personages 
who  requested  in  a  foreign  language,  which 
I  understood  at  once,  to  be  taken  in  and  fed 
and  clothed  and  sent  to  school  and  loved  and 
tenderly  cared  for.  Very  modest  of  them 
—  was  it  not  ?  —  in  view  of  the  fact  that  I 
had  never  seen  either  of  them  before.  To 
all  intents  and  purposes  they  were  perfect 
strangers  to  me.  What  was  my  surprise 
when  it  turned  out  (just  as  if  it  were  in  a 
fairy  legend)  that  these  were  my  own  sons ! 
When  I  say  they  came  hand  in  hand,  it  is 
to  advise  you  that  these  two  boys  were 
twins,  like  that  pair  of  tiny  girls  I  just  men 
tioned. 

These  young  gentlemen  are  at  present 
known  as  Charley  and  Talbot,  in  the  house 
hold,  and  to  a  very  limited  circle  of  ac 
quaintances  outside;  but  as  Charley  has 

1  This  sketch  was  written  in  1874.  The  author  claims  for 
it  no  other  merit  than  that  of  having  been  among  the  earliest 
appeals  for  the  formation  of  such  a  Society  as  now  exists  — 
the  Massachusetts  Society  for  the  Prevention  of  Cruelty  to 
Children. 


THE  LITTLE  VIOLINIST,  277 

declared  his  intention  to  become  a  circus- 
rider,  and  Talbot,  who  has  not  so  soaring  an 
ambition,  has  resolved  to  be  a  policeman,  it 
is  likely  the  world  will  hear  of  them  be 
fore  long.  In  the  mean  time,  and  with  a 
view  to  the  severe  duties  of  the  professions 
selected,  they  are  learning  the  alphabet, 
Charley  vaulting  over  the  hard  letters  with 
an  agility  which  promises  well  for  his  career 
as  circus-rider,  and  Talbot  collaring  the  slip 
pery  S's  and  pursuing  the  suspicious  X  Y 
Z's  with  the  promptness  and  boldness  of  a 
night-watchman. 

Now  it  is  my  pleasure  not  only  to  feed 
and  clothe  Masters  Charley  and  Talbot  as  if 
they  were  young  princes  or  dukes,  but  to 
look  to  it  that  they  do  not  wear  out  their 
ingenious  minds  by  too  much  study.  So  I 
occasionally  take  them  to  a  puppet-show  or 
a  musical  entertainment,  and  always  in  holi 
day  time  to  see  a  pantomime.  This  last  is 
their  especial  delight.  It  is  a  fine  thing  to 
behold  the  business-like  air  with  which  they 
climb  into  their  seats  in  the  parquet,  and 
the  gravity  with  which  they  immediately 
begin  to  read  the  play-bill  upside  down. 
Then,  between  the  acts,  the  solemnity  with 
which  they  extract  the  juice  from  an  orange, 


278  THE  LITTLE  VIOLINIST. 

through  a  hole  made  with  a  lead-pencil,  is 
also  a  noticeable  thing. 

Their  knowledge  of  the  mysteries  of 
Fairyland  is  at  once  varied  and  profound. 
Everything  delights,  but  nothing  astonishes 
them.  That  people  covered  with  spangles 
should  dive  headlong  through  the  floor ;  that 
fairy  queens  should  step  out  of  the  trunks 
of  trees  ;  that  the  poor  wood-cutter's  cottage 
should  change,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye, 
into  a  glorious  palace  or  a  goblin  grotto 
under  the  sea,  with  crimson  fountains  and 
golden  staircases  and  silver  foliage  —  all 
that  is  a  matter  of  course.  This  is  the  kind 
of  world  they  live  in  at  present.  If  these 
things  happened  at  home  they  would  not  be 
astonished. 

The  other  day,  it  was  just  before  Christ 
mas,  I  saw  the  boys  attentively  regarding 
a  large  pumpkin  which  lay  on  the  kitchen 
floor,  waiting  to  be  made  into  pies.  If  that 
pumpkin  had  suddenly  opened,  if  wheels 
had  sprouted  out  on  each  side,  and  if  the 
two  kittens  playing  with  an  onion-skin  by 
the  range  had  turned  into  milk-white  ponies 
and  harnessed  themselves  to  this  Cinderella 
coach,  neither  Charley  nor  Talbot  would 
have  considered  it  an  unusual  circumstance. 


THE  LITTLE  VIOLINIST.  279 

The  pantomime  which  is  usually  played  at 
the  Boston  Theatre  during  the  holidays  is  to 
them  positive  proof  that  the  stories  of  Cin 
derella  and  Jack  of  the  Beanstalk  and  Jack 
the  Giant  -  Killer  have  historical  solidity. 
They  like  to  be  reassurecl  on  that  point.  So 
one  morning  last  January,  when  I  informed 
Charley  and  Talbot,  at  the  breakfast-table, 
that  Prince  Rupert  and  his  court  had  come 
to  town, 

"  Some  in  jags, 
Some  in  rags, 
And  some  in  velvet  gown," 

the  news  was  received  with  great  satisfac 
tion  ;  for  this  meant  that  we  were  to  go 
to  the  play. 

For  the  sake  of  the  small  folk,  who  could 
not  visit  him  at  night,  Prince  Rupert  was 
gracious  enough  to  appear  every  Saturday 
afternoon  during  the  month.  We  decided 
to  wait  upon  his  Highness  at  one  of  his 
matinees. 

You  would  never  have  dreamed  that  the 
sun  was  shining  brightly  outside,  if  you  had 
been  with  us  in  the  theatre  that  afternoon. 
All  the  window-shutters  were  closed,  and 
the  great  glass  chandelier  hanging  from  the 
gayly  painted  dome  was  one  blaze  of  light. 


280  THE  LITTLE  VIOLINIST. 

But  brighter  even  than  the  jets  of  gas  were 
the  ruddy,  eager  faces  of  countless  boys  and 
girls,  fringing  the  balconies  and  crowded 
into  the  seats  below,  longing  for  the  play 
to  begin.  And  nowhere  were  there  two 
merrier  or  more  eager  faces  than  those  of 
Charley  and  Talbot,  pecking  now  and  then 
at  a  brown  paper  cone  filled  with  white 
grapes,  which  I  held,  and  waiting  for  the 
solemn  green  curtain  to  roll  up,  and  disclose 
the  coral  realm  of  the  Naiad  Queen. 

I  shall  touch  very  lightly  on  the  literary 
aspects  of  the  play.  Its  plot,  like  that  of 
the  modern  novel,  was  of  so  subtile  a  nature 
as  not  to  be  visible  to  the  naked  eye.  I 
doubt  if  the  dramatist  himself  could  have 
explained  it,  even  if  he  had  been  so  conde 
scending  as  to  attempt  to  do  so.  There 
was  a  bold  young  prince  —  Prince  Rupert, 
of  course  —  who  went  into  Wonderland  in 
search  of  adventures.  He  reached  Wonder 
land  by  leaping  from  the  castle  of  Drach- 
enfels  into  the  Rhine.  Then  there  was 
one  Snaps,  the  prince's  valet,  who  did  not 
in  the  least  want  to  go,  but  went,  and  got 
terribly  frightened  by  the  Green  Demons 
of  the  Chrysolite  Cavern,  which  made  us 
all  laugh  —  it  being  such  a  pleasant  thing 


THE  LITTLE  VIOLINIST.  281 

to  see  somebody  else  scared  nearly  to  death. 
Then  there  were  knights  in  brave  tin  ar 
mor,  and  armies  of  fair  pre-Raphaelite  ama- 
zons  in  all  the  colors  of  the  rainbow,  and 
troops  of  unhappy  slave-girls,  who  did  noth 
ing  but  smile  and  wear  beautiful  dresses, 
and  dance  continually  to  the  most  delight 
ful  music.  Now  you  were  in  an  enchanted 
castle  on  the  banks  of  the  Rhine,  and  now 
you  were  in  a  cave  of  amethysts  and  dia 
monds  at  the  bottom  of  the  river  —  scene 
following  scene  with  such  bewildering  rapid 
ity  that  finally  you  did  not  quite  know  where 
you  were. 

But  what  interested  me  most,  and  what 
pleased  Charley  and  Talbot  even  beyond 
the  Naiad  Queen  herself,  was  the  little  vio 
linist  who  came  to  the  German  Court,  and 
played  before  Prince  Rupert  and  his  bride. 

It  was  such  a  little  fellow  !  He  was  not 
more  than  a  year  older  than  my  own  boys, 
and  not  much  taller.  He  had  a  very  sweet, 
sensitive  face,  with  large  gray  eyes,  in  which 
there  was  a  deep-settled  expression  that  I  do 
not  like  to  see  in  a  child.  Looking  at  his 
eyes  alone,  you  would  have  said  he  was  six 
teen  or  seventeen,  and  he  was  merely  a 
baby! 


282  THE  LITTLE  VIOLINIST. 

I  do  not  know  enough  of  music  to  assert 
that  he  had  wonderful  genius,  or  any  genius 
at  all;  but  it  seemed  to  me  he  played  charm 
ingly,  and  with  the  touch  of  a  natural  mu 
sician. 

At  the  end  of  his  piece,  he  was  lifted 
over  the  foot-lights  of  the  stage  into  the 
orchestra,  where,  with  the  conductor's  bdton 
in  his  hand,  he  directed  the  band  in  playing 
one  or  two  difficult  compositions.  In  this 
he  evinced  a  carefully  trained  ear  and  a 
perfect  understanding  of  the  music. 

I  wanted  to  hear  the  little  violin  again ; 
but  as  he  made  his  bow  to  the  audience  and 
ran  off,  it  was  with  a  half-wearied  air,  and  I 
did  not  join  with  my  neighbors  in  calling 
him  back.  "  There  's  another  performance 
to-night,"  I  reflected,  "  and  the  little  fellow 
is  n't  very  strong."  He  came  out,  however, 
and  bowed,  but  did  not  play  again. 

All  the  way  home  from  the  theatre  my 
children  were  full  of  the  little  violinist,  and 
as  they  went  along,  chattering  and  frolick 
ing  in  front  of  me,  and  getting  under  my 
feet  like  a  couple  of  young  spaniels  (they 
did  not  look  unlike  two  small  brown  span 
iels,  with  their  fur-trimmed  overcoats  and 
sealskin  caps  and  ear-lappets),  I  could  not 


THE  LITTLE  VIOLINIST.  283 

help  thinking  how  different  the  poor  little 
musician's  lot  was  from  theirs. 

He  was  only  six  years  and  a  half  old,  and 
had  been  before  the  public  nearly  three 
years.  What  hours  of  toil  and  weariness 
he  must  have  been  passing  through  at  the 
very  time  when  my  little  ones  were  being 
rocked  and  petted  and  shielded  from  every 
ungentle  wind  that  blows !  And  what  an 
existence  was  his  now  —  travelling  from  city 
to  city,  practising  at  every  spare  moment, 
and  performing  night  after  night  in  some 
close  theatre  or  concert-room  when  he  should 
be  drinking  in  that  deep,  refreshing  slumber 
which  childhood  needs  !  However  much  he 
was  loved  by  those  who  had  charge  of  him, 
and  they  must  have  treated  him  kindly,  it 
was  a  hard  life  for  the  child. 

He  ought  to  have  been  turned  out  into 
the  sunshine  ;  that  pretty  violin  —  one  can 
easily  understand  that  he  was  fond  of  it 
himself  —  ought  to  have  been  taken  away 
from  him,  and  a  kite-string  placed  in  his 
hand  instead.  If  God  had  set  the  germ  of 
a  great  musician  or  a  great  composer  in  that 
slight  body,  surely  it  would  have  been  wise 
to  let  the  precious  gift  ripen  and  flower  in 
its  own  good  season. 


284  THE  LITTLE  VIOLINIST. 

This  is  what  I  thought,  walking  home  in 
the  amber  glow  of  the  wintry  sunset ;  but 
my  boys  saw  only  the  bright  side  of  the 
tapestry,  and  would  have  liked  nothing  bet 
ter  than  to  change  places  with  little  James 
Speaight.  To  stand  in  the  midst  of  Fairy 
land,  and  play  beautiful  tunes  on  a  toy 
fiddle,  while  all  the  people  clapped  their 
hands  —  what  could  quite  equal  that?  Char 
ley  began  to  think  it  was  no  such  grand 
thing  to  be  a  circus-rider,  and  the  dazzling 
career  of  policeman  had  lost  something  of 
its  glamour  in  the  eyes  of  Talbot. 

It  is  my  custom  every  night,  after  the 
children  are  snug  in  their  nests  and  the  gas 
is  turned  down,  to  sit  on  the  side  of  the  bed 
and  chat  with  them  five  or  ten  minutes.  If 
anything  has  gone  wrong  through  the  day,  it 
is  never  alluded  to  at  this  time.  None  but 
the  most  agreeable  topics  are  discussed.  I 
make  it  a  point  that  the  boys  shall  go  to 
sleep  with  untroubled  hearts.  When  our 
chat  is  ended,  they  say  their  prayers.  Now, 
among  the  pleas  which  they  offer  up  for  the 
several  members  of  the  family,  they  fre 
quently  intrude  the  claims  of  rather  curious 
objects  for  Divine  compassion.  Sometimes 
it  is  the  rocking-horse  that  has  broken  a  leg, 


THE  LITTLE  VIOLINIST.  285 

sometimes  it  is  Shem  or  Japhet,  who  has 
lost  an  arm  in  disembarking  from  Noah's 
ark ;  Pinky  and  Inky,  the  kittens,  and  Rob, 
the  dog,  are  never  forgotten. 

So  it  did  not  surprise  me  at  all  this  Sat 
urday  night  when  both  boys  prayed  God  to 
watch  over  and  bless  the  little  violinist. 

The  next  morning  at  the  breakfast-table, 
when  I  unfolded  the  newspaper,  the  first 
paragraph  my  eyes  fell  upon  was  this :  — 

"  James  Speaight,  the  infant  violinist,  died  in 
this  city  late  on  Saturday  night.  At  the  matinee 
of  the  '  Naiad  Queen,'  on  the  afternoon  of  that 
day,  when  little  James  Speaight  came  off  the 
stage,  after  giving  his  usual  violin  performance, 
Mr.  Shewell 1  noticed  that  he  appeared  fatigued, 
and  asked  if  he  felt  ill.  He  replied  that  he  had 
a  pain  in  his  heart,  and  then  Mr.  Shewell  sug 
gested  that  he  remain  away  from  the  evening 
performance.  He  retired  quite  early,  and  about 
midnight  his  father  heard  him  say,  '  Gracious 
God,  make  room  for  another  little  child  in 
Heaven'  No  sound  was  heard  after  this,  and 
his  father  spoke  to  him  soon  afterwards  ;  he  re 
ceived  no  answer,  but  found  his  child  dead." 

The  printed  letters  grew  dim  and  melted 
into  each  other,  as  I  tried  to  re-read  them. 

1  The  stage-manager. 


286  THE  LITTLE  VIOLINIST. 

I  glanced  across  the  table  at  Charley  and 
Talbot  eating  their  breakfast,  with  the 
slanted  sunlight  from  the  window  turning 
their  curls  into  real  gold,  and  I  had  not 
the  heart  to  tell  them  what  had  happened. 

Of  all  the  prayers  that  floated  up  to 
heaven,  that  Saturday  night,  from  the  bed 
sides  of  sorrowful  men  and  women,  or  from 
the  cots  of  innocent  children,  what  accents 
could  have  fallen  more  piteously  and  ten 
derly  upon  the  ear  of  a  listening  angel  than 
the  prayer  of  little  James  Speaight !  He 
knew  he  was  dying.  The  faith  he  had 
learned,  perhaps  while  running  at  his  moth 
er's  side,  in  some  green  English  lane,  came 
to  him  then.  He  remembered  it  was  Christ 
who  said,  "  Suffer  the  little  children  to  come 
unto  me ; "  and  the  beautiful  prayer  rose  to 
his  lips,  "  Gracious  God,  make  room  for  an 
other  little  child  in  Heaven." 

I  folded  up  the  newspaper  silently,  and 
throughout  the  day  I  did  not  speak  before 
the  boys  of  the  little  violinist's  death ;  but 
when  the  time  came  for  our  customary  chat 
in  the  nursery,  I  told  the  story  to  Charley 
and  Talbot.  I  do  not  think  that  they  un 
derstood  it  very  well,  and  still  less  did  they 
understand  why  I  lingered  so  much  longei 


THE  LITTLE  VIOLINIST.  287 

than  usual  by  their  bedside  that  Sunday 
night. 

As  I  sat  there  in  the  dimly  lighted  room, 
it  seemed  to  me  that  I  could  hear,  in  the 
pauses  of  the  winter  wind,  faintly  and 
doubtfully  somewhere  in  the  distance,  the 
sound  of  the  little  violin. 

Ah,  that  little  violin  !  —  a  cherished  relic 
now.  Perhaps  it  plays  soft,  plaintive  airs 
all  by  itself,  in  the  place  where  it  is  kept, 
missing  the  touch  of  the  baby  fingers  which 
used  to  waken  it  into  life  ! 


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THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDKICH. 

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DUDLEY  WARNER. 

3.  Fireside    Travels.     .  By    JAMES     RUSSELL 

LOWELL. 

4.  The  Luck  of  Soaring  Camp,  and  Othe-r 

Stories.     By  BRET  HARTE. 

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